


Vultures Rush In

by usefulobject



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Jokes, Fourth Age, M/M, Orc-talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usefulobject/pseuds/usefulobject
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mordor falls, a hunter from the Misty Mountains joins a displaced Isengard Uruk in hopes of claiming some of the loot in the ruins of Sauron's domain.  Along the journey they develop unexpected (totally expected) feelings. Can they get the big cash money wad or will they die like pigs in hell?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dear Lord Sauron, Thanks for Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> This probably will not update quickly. It was originally something I made a long time ago when I had a lot less confidence in my writing and rarely posted any of it (granted, it _was_ pretty bad back then, but I now realize "wrote a dumb story" is not a prison-worthy offense, no matter what the internet tells you). I decided to dust it off because I DON’T KNOW. I’m trying to hammer it into shape to the best of my abilities, but that’s gonna take a while.

Razashûk didn't like trees, and they didn't like him.

He scuttled across the forest floor in timid bursts, avoiding as many big trees as possible while trying not to get whipped on the legs by the tiny sucker branches poking out of the ground, feeding on the massive gnarled roots that seemed to place themselves right where he'd trip on them. Some forests weren't so bad, like dead scrublands and burned groves with only hints of life peeking through the ashes, but ancient places like this were agony to sneak through because the trees had been around long enough to know exactly what he was and how to do everything in their meager power to kill him by inches.

Stinging needles of sunlight pierced the canopy, and Razashûk was grateful that for once this wasn't anything that required him to be terribly stealthy. Between the stumbling and the cursing, he'd probably woken up everything for a mile around him. Good thing that consisted of birds and rodents instead of Elves. If there ever had been any in these parts, they had the sense to haul ass out of there long ago.

* * *

The predicament he was in had started off nobly enough. Talk of the war had long since reached even the most obscure corners of the Misty Mountains. Subtle noises in the wind and thunder had called to him, to take up his knife and bow for a greater purpose than picking off straggling animals and keeping scavengers away from the cavern entrances. And so he'd struck out to leave the simple life behind and seek his fortune in the heart of the Land of Shadows, as you do, but the world had displayed its usual sense of fairness only a few weeks into the journey.

One bright morning, just as he was slinking towards a hole to hide and rest in, a coldness cut through the air and he felt his legs crumple beneath him as his breath stuck in his throat and choked him. When he came to, he felt numb and slow, as if he was walking in a river of muck surrounded by a thick fog. His lungs ached and he could have sworn his heart was beating in a different rhythm. 

No one needed to tell Razashûk what had happened.

Of course, he couldn't just turn around and go home. Chief Burzash would finally declare him an official disappointment, his family would make fun of him beyond the usual, and he'd still be right back where he started, possibly with more duties involving cleaning up Warg shit. Besides, it would be adding insult to injury to the rest of the tribe. Losing their divine guiding force and gaining a spineless quitter was a poor bargain, and soothing others in times of grief and panic wasn't exactly one of his strong points.

He wandered in no particular direction, stopping at length to mope and sleep and hope that each time he woke up it would have been a stupid dream and Lord Sauron's gaze still enveloped the world.

After several aimless days, he was knocked out of the haze one evening by a towering Uruk-hai who helpfully shoved him into the puckerbrush and smacked him for leaving footprints, shortly before a small patrol of bedraggled Men passed through, close enough that their stink made him squint. Fortunately they didn't seem too alert and didn't even notice any signs of strange foreign boots mucking up the ground. Whatever they were after, it wasn't Orcs.

"You're welcome," the Uruk said, after they were safely out of sight and earshot. Razashûk had never dealt with any of Saruman’s creations directly, but always heard they were a bunch of smug bastards, and this one certainly wasn’t helping his case.

He bore the mark of the White Hand on his armor, and his hair was tied back in a futile stab at preventing it from being a tangled mess. It was shot through with sun-bleached streaks the color of rust. The mere thought of spending that much time in daylight made Razashûk’s skin itch.

The Uruk squinted and studied him for a moment. “You’re from the mountains, I reckon.”

“So?”

“So you’d know how to get through places like that. Tunnels and trails and such, off the beaten path. Tell you what, for as long as we’re heading the same direction, you navigate the way, and I’ll make sure you don’t get killed.”

“Fair enough,” he said. He wasn’t sure why. But at the very least it couldn't hurt to have a large wall of flesh between him and any more trouble that came his way, and they trekked together over the bumpy terrain, making uneasy small talk.

Said wall of flesh was named Durgrat, and he was headed for the vague destination of Somewhere Out East after his prospects back home suddenly took a turn for the worse. "Isengard shit the bed," he explained with the typical eloquence Razashûk would soon grow accustomed to. Razashûk wasn't clear on the whole thing, as his tribe had stayed out of that particular mess. Chief Burzash decided the idea of some weird geezer in fancy clothes promising them the moon in exchange for a bunch of mangy Wargs and tarnished swords smelled a bit off. But Razashûk had got wind of stories of a terrible flood, and for all his bluster, a complete failure on the White Wizard's part to prevent it or do anything to salvage the wreckage of his once-proud fortress. 

After a long stretch of silence, Durgrat glanced around nervously then leaned in towards the other Orc. “I have something to show you.”

Razashûk glowered. “You must be very new to the world indeed if you think anyone’s gonna fall for that. Fuck off.”

"Don't flatter yourself, _snaga_. Anyway, I don't have it on me.”

Razashûk let that slide. “Why not?”

“Too valuable to carry around here, so close to Men. If I die, at least it won’t fall into their hands.”

“Ah,” he replied. It was probably a bad idea to let slip he wasn’t quite certain where he was and had no idea there were Mannish settlements nearby. He’d abandoned the path he originally planned after losing any compelling reason to follow it.

“I stashed it a bit south of here, past, uh, all that.” Durgrat waved his arm at a thick mass of trees a couple hundred yards away.

“That shouldn’t take too long to bolt through. It won’t be pleasant, but not much of anything is lately. We’ll survive.”

Durgrat grumbled and suggested an alternate route over the plains that would take a little longer, and at first Razashûk thought he was just being a big showoff about his special fancy skin that let him shrug off sunlight like it was nothing. But oh no, he insisted. He had to go _around_ the forest and didn't even want to be too close to the edge. Razashûk elected to suck it up and charge on through, while Durgrat promised to meet him on the other side. 

So much for that legendary Uruk-hai toughness. Razashûk had to assume Durgrat was still alive only through some bizarre blessing from the depths of the Void, unseen forces keeping him around for a great destiny yet to be revealed.

* * *

The sun was gone and splotches of clouds fitfully blotted out the moon. Razashûk exhaled in relief, both from the escape from the gauntlet of angry foliage, and the sight of a small fire not too far off in the distance, meaning Durgrat hadn’t just been setting some weird trap or had ditched him like he'd halfway expected. He hoisted an armload of dry branches, which he liked to think of as one final insult to the forest, and trudged towards the flickering light. 

“How was your little stroll through the sunny field?”

“Fine,” the Uruk said, despite the blood-soaked cloth wrapped around his upper arm.

A few odd items were strewn on the ground around him. There was a rough iron pot on the fire, bubbling with some unknown murky substance. "It's stew, sort of,” said Durgrat. “There's meat parts in it." He gave it a sideways glance, wrinkling up his nose. "I tried."

Razashûk did his best not to make a face right back at him. An Uruk feeling the need to actually cook a piece of meat didn't bode well for its condition. He took a cautious slurp and was relieved that whatever was in the attempted stew, at least none of it was still moving. It was thin yet oddly gelatinous, full of mysterious lumps, and tasted kind of like how pond scum smelled. But it wasn't as if he had much of a choice in the matter, with his stomach clawing at itself for the good part of the last couple of days. Food was food, and he'd had worse things in his mouth.

After ingesting as much of it as he could tolerate, Razashûk got back to business. “About this fantastic thing you insisted on sharing. I hope you didn’t mean that stuff.”

“No, it’s better. Much better. It’s actually good, even.”

Razashûk made a non-committal grunt.

"Trust me," he said, reaching into a soggy leather satchel that Razashûk had figured was empty. "I nicked this from Sharkey's library. Unimportant things don't end up in there." He thrust a thick, rolled-up parchment that had definitely seen better days towards Razashûk.

"The fuck were _you_ doing in a library?"

Durgrat huffed. “That's not the point. Go on, look at it."

He carefully uncurled the battered scroll, revealing a somewhat archaic map of the Eastern side of the world.

It was in a slightly different dialect than he was used to, but Razashûk understood the legend well enough through the odd spellings and outdated names, and was suddenly glad his father couldn't see him now to jab him with a well-aimed "I told you so" about the usefulness of learning to read old Morgul runes. He recognized the borderlands and the Black Gate, a thick bar of ink standing out among little wisps of valleys and river tributaries. Though he'd never been there, he'd heard enough stories to know where the _Tarks_ now encroached on Mordor, and the general layout of the vast plains separating the weak and the lost from the denizens of the black city.

But it was one corner in particular that really caught his eye: the one marked with a scratchy drawing, clearly added in later by a different hand. It showed a large box nestled in a pile of jewels, coins, and weapons, surrounded by lurid and esoteric descriptions like "The Witch-king's Daughter" and "Piercer of a Thousand Hearts".

"Do you understand now?" said Durgrat. "Yeah, go ahead and laugh at my education, but even I can catch on to that."

Blessing from the Void, indeed.


	2. Bad Music for Bad People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one. I’m afraid it got a bit info-dumpy...

The sky was mercifully gloomy and overcast as they shambled along a rocky stretch of ground. But the terrain was slow going, and the still air and solitude weren’t doing much for Durgrat either. The tunnels under Orthanc were no palace, but they had their advantages. There was always someone to talk to, for one. Razashûk seemed all too comfortable with being quiet.

It was a common enough misconception that the key to life down in the caverns of Isengard was merely a question of being sufficiently vicious. It wasn’t that simple. Durgrat could manage mean easily enough, it was just the wrong _kind_ of mean. Despite his size, he lacked any real commanding presence, which was just as well since he also didn’t have the drive or desire to go about bossing everyone around. Might as well paint a target on your back.

But when, say, Captain Garmog snarled that his favorite dagger was missing, or some unlucky grunt was certain that quiver had exactly eight arrows in it just a few minutes ago, Durgrat would peer out from whatever shadowy corner he was skulking in and smile to himself.

Soon enough he’d grown bored with pilfering from kitchens and storerooms, and he’d swiped enough stuff to bribe the guards into letting him into one of Saruman’s forbidden study rooms, which proved quite lucrative. In addition to the map, he’d gained such riches as a particularly shiny stone that had been weighing down some old parchments, a slim volume of erotic poetry he couldn’t read (but that had illustrations), four assorted iron keys, and a small pouch full of mystery dust. He figured if it wasn’t valuable on its own, maybe he could persuade some dimwit into thinking it was magical or at least had fun effects when snorted, and gain a few extra coins.

His ambitious daydream of becoming a small-time con artist was interrupted by Razashûk piercing the air with a yelp. He turned and saw the Orc hopping around and furiously swatting at his shoulder while a string of Orkish swear words burst forth from his snarling mouth. Durgrat wasn’t familiar with the dialect, but got the general gist of it.

“Settle down. It’s not like someone shot you. Though they might, if you keep yelling like that.”

“Easy to say when you’re not the one getting shit-bombed by birds. Fucking fancy rats, that’s all they are.” He squinted disapprovingly up at the sky, as if more of them were hiding in wait behind the clouds.

Durgrat shrugged. Back in Isengard getting shat on by a crow was practically a rite of passage; you knew you’d made it when one of the White Wizard’s messengers chose to let you know exactly what it thought of you.

* * *

Razashûk had got a better handle on their location after passing through territory with a clear view of the mountains in the distance. He marked a tentative path on the map with a piece of charcoal, careful not to damage the ancient ink underneath. He trusted the map was fairly accurate despite its age, and had so far managed to squelch the urge to make any clever additions like stink lines over Lorien or a new pond around Orthanc. 

Speaking of which, if Durgrat had any duplicity on his mind, he’d apparently elected to slowly drive Razashûk mad rather than just kill him and eat his guts and be done with it. He was prone to saying half of something and then just trailing off as if Razashûk could magically hear whatever was rattling around in that thick skull of his. Maybe there was something to those jokes about Isengarders having only one brain to share between them, and without Saruman’s power the enchanted threads connecting it all had been cut.

He decided to change course since having half a conversation was even more annoying than dead silence. He’d just yammer on so that the Uruk couldn’t get part of a word in edgewise.

He shared a story from his childhood, regaling Durgrat with the tale of the clever young huntress Borrarz, who tricked a treacherous band of Elf marauders into falling into their own traps and made off with their treasure, laughing all the way home while wearing a cloak dyed red with their blood. Razashûk found himself more spirited about it than he would’ve thought, providing obnoxious voices for the Elves and even snarls from Borrarz’s beloved Warg. He felt a blink of embarrassment as he realized what he was doing, but Durgrat looked amused enough, and not in a “Get a load of this idiot!” way. 

Durgrat told the somewhat less inspiring story of the time the shifty whiteskin guarding the prison cages accidentally fell backwards onto a knife about a dozen times. 

When they grew too exhausted to go any further and the light began swiftly fading, Razashûk plunked down on the ground and started to build a sad little nest out of his belongings. Durgrat followed suit, kicking a few rocks out of the way before flopping onto his back.

Razashûk squirmed. His stomach pinched in on itself and made a squelching sound. Come morning, he’d have to break it to his companion that there was no avoiding the forest if they wanted to eat. This part of the plains wasn’t hospitable to anything edible, plant or animal alike.

The darkness was no comfort. The air was frosty and damp, and Razashûk wasn’t used to sleeping at night when he was outside the caves. Worse yet, only a few feet away Durgrat was making some horrendously familiar noises, grunting along with a soft rhythmic slapping. Perhaps he thought Razashûk was asleep or perhaps he just didn't care, the important thing was that it was filling Razashûk with an intensely uncomfortable mix of sensations that made him want to flop over and slug Durgrat in the ribs. He pulled his blanket over his ears and held it there, squinting his eyes shut and hoping the combination of silence and cold would make his face stop burning.

Starting something over it and thus causing frustration seemed like a very bad idea. So far the big lummox had been surprisingly calm towards him, so Razashûk figured it was only a matter of time before the massive boiling cauldron of white-hot Uruk-hai rage he was undoubtedly repressing spilled over, and he would rather that happen when something or someone thwarted them. 

He curled himself into a ball, still trying to adjust to the rough ground, and after Durgrat made one last long groan and fell quiet he found his irritation tempered by a twinge of sympathy for him and his kin. No mother but the earth, and no father but a voice on the wind. How were they supposed to know not to act like turds?

Just when he felt his eyelids begin to droop, Durgrat rolled over on his side and stared at him. 

“Razashûk?”

“What.”

"Do you know any songs?” he asked. "It's one of those things, you know?" He let out a short sigh at Razashûk's blank expression. “Nobody ever quite got around to explaining singing. I mean, I understand what it _is_ , just not why anyone would do that on purpose.”

“Uh. Well. Songs have the purpose of um, telling a story or expressing a thought by using...” He felt like a child kissing up to one of the scribes, trying to look smart by parroting things he didn’t quite grasp. “Look, I’ll just sing you one, all right?”

That was also a very bad idea.

It didn't help that on top of having a voice like a wagonload of gravel being carted over a bumpy hill, the only proper songs Razashûk knew were about things like getting stabbed in the gut, or being taunted by ghosts while buried alive under an avalanche, or bleeding out in a cold wet ditch after the town guards spotted you and shot you, and you'd only gone near the village in the first place because you were dying of starvation and had already picked over the bones of the only person you'd ever truly loved. 

"Thanks, I think,” said Durgrat. His face looked none too grateful, and Razashûk laughed.

“Pfft! I’m no songbird. We’ve never been ones for that sort of thing, not where I’m from. I doubt it explained much.”

"No, it did. I see how it'd ease your burden to sing, because it makes everyone else just as miserable as you are."

_You might just be all right after all,_ Razashûk thought.

* * *

Razashûk awoke to the pain of sunlight, and hastily stuffed away everything while wearing his threadbare blanket like a cloak in a vain attempt to stave it off. As he expected, there was a rough trail cutting through the edge of the forest nearby, and he shuffled towards it. “Come on, it’s either go through here or eat dirt.” _Or me. Best not to even joke about it..._

Durgrat apparently was in no mood to argue, perhaps cowed by the possibility of another round of traditional Orkish singing. He hissed through his teeth and trudged in, his hands balled into fists. After a few minutes of unenthusiastic survival, Razashûk was about to finally get his chance to be on the giving end of an “I told you so” when the Uruk stopped and glanced around.

“Did you hear that?”

Razashûk brushed him off. “That’s just forest stuff. There’s _supposed_ to be annoying little noises everywhere, from lizards and squirrels and all that.”

They pressed onward, but the fragile calm was shattered when he tripped and felt something snag around his legs. The Uruk also thudded to the ground, though only one of his ankles had gotten tangled up in a crude snare.

“Squirrels, huh,” said Durgrat. 

“Toll collector!” a high, raspy voice crooned. Razashûk twitched at the sound. The voice’s owner dropped out of the canopy and scrambled down a tree trunk into view, and he made a pained grimace at the sight. 

“You’ve got to be fucking joking.”


	3. Girls and Traps, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long! I’ve been unexpectedly busy. (Plus I never write anything in order, and what I had was a beginning and half a middle with some gaps in it, and kind of an ending. This is where that beginning left off.)

“Oh, shit,” said the Orc who just dropped out of the tree. She looked a bit more gaunt than the last time Razashûk had seen her, but there was no mistaking her. “Didn’t recognize you, what with the lack of whining and your buddy blocking the view. You get a pass. I’m not a _monster_.” She sheathed her sword, hunched down and untied the ropes snarled around Razashûk, then turned her attention towards his companion. “Who’s this, anyway? A bounty or something? He doesn’t look too broken up about it.”

Razashûk got up and brushed the dust off himself. “This is my cousin, Ushûl,” he said, frowning at the ground and flapping an arm in her general direction. “Ushûl, this is Durgrat.”

She made an exaggerated curtsy motion and grinned up at them. Some horrible person, possibly Ushûl herself, had carved up the sides of her mouth into a sort of permanent rictus, and in combination with a real smile the effect was truly unsettling. 

“Is this one of those family rituals I’ve been tragically deprived of, then?” Durgrat asked, shaking the failed trap off his foot.

“No, ‘Toll Collector’ was this fucking stupid game we played when we were children. It was barely even a game, really. The rules as such were that if you had something Ushûl wanted, she’d get in your way and kick the crap out of you until you gave it up.” He shot a withering glance at her, pained by the memory of so many trinkets and food scraps cruelly wrenched from him forever. “Apparently she’s made a career of it. I suppose some people never grow up.”

“Ah, come on, Raz. I wouldn’t have said it if I knew it was you. You’d never have anything valuable.”

 _Oh, just you wait..._ Razashûk crossed his arms and huffed.

Durgrat was only vaguely familiar with the concept of children, his knowledge mainly consisting of “They’re very small” and “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one”, but thought better of asking any questions for the moment. 

“What are you doing all the way over here, anyway? Thought you were busy with the usual. And seriously, why have you got an Isengarder in tow?”

“It’s complicated,” he replied.

“Then allow me to make amends by offering you shelter, and you can tell me all about it,” she said. “It’s not much, but the wind’s picking up and it beats freezing to death.”

She led them to a tiny old ramshackle house just off the path, concealed by a thick cluster of ferns and saplings taking over what used to be a clearing. From outside it looked like it could tip over if someone farted too close to it, but the inside was cozier than Razashûk expected, and it only had a few drafty spots where the boards didn’t quite meet. It was clearly of Mannish design, with glass windows, a rough stone fireplace, and a square table with a tattered cloth on it in the center of the front room. The floor was partly covered by a round rug that looked like it might have had a pattern in it once, since faded and stomped into oblivion by countless boot prints.

“Nice, eh? I found it like this. Didn’t look like anyone had touched it in ages, but it’s still good.” Ushûl swatted at the wall to prove its sturdiness.

“Are you sure you didn’t kick some unfortunate geezer’s shinbones into splinters for it?” 

She shoved him on the shoulder and then gestured towards the table. “You look hungry. Sit yourselves down.”

At that, she turned away towards a large sack next to the fireplace. Razashûk was grateful for her finally showing some good manners, and not wasting his time with “How’s your mum?” and other pointless chatter. She knew perfectly well that his silence on the matter meant his family was, as always, doing just fine and making him look like rubbish in comparison to the rest of them.

“You’re lucky. I just caught this today,” she said, hefting a large dead badger. “It’ll still be nice and bloody.”

She chopped at it with a worn, heavy-looking cleaver while she hummed tunelessly to herself. When it was gutted and divided up to her satisfaction, she glanced over at her cousin. “So, what exactly are you up to?”

“I’m going to Mordor, you know, see how far the _tarks_ made it, and pick over corpses. I hired Durgrat to carry my stuff.” 

She looked suspicious (most likely at the idea of Razashûk having money, let alone giving it to anyone else) but played along. “That’s interesting.” 

“I could say the same of you. This whole setup feels awfully...un-Orclike.”

“Not really. It’s dark and cool most of the time here, and the trees don’t bother me too much. I think they got used to me, and caught on that I’m here alone, and not going to swing an axe at them. I like it here. I thought of starting a farm.”

He nearly spat. “A fucking farm, seriously? The quaint little shack wasn’t sickening enough?”

“Yeah, a spider farm.” She continued, nonchalant, as she fidgeted with a handful of roots Razashûk didn’t recognize, snapping off the rotten bits at the ends. “Not those big fuckoff bastards you hear horrible stories about, I mean like the little fuzzy ones you can hold in your hand. I just can’t figure out how to get them to stay in one place. If I knew what makes them want to build webs in a certain spot, it’d be a whole lot easier.”

“Why exactly would you want to farm spiders?”

“They eat everything I hate. Flies, ants, moths...” Ushûl trailed off as she noticed Durgrat staring at them both.

“How rude of me,” she said. “So, uh, what’s _your_ deal, big’un?”

* * *

After the mixture of badger chunks and mystery roots and the Great Eye only knows what else was completed to Ushûl’s satisfaction, they ended up sitting on the floor huddled around the fireplace, since those drafty spots were getting more insufferable as the evening wore on. And Ushûl had been trying her best to indicate through gestures while Durgrat had his back turned that she was afraid he’d break her treasured decrepit chairs if he moved wrong. Even Razashûk’s wiry frame was enough to make them creak in a disconcerting way.

Razashûk was disarmed by how tolerable his cousin was being, and the food was delightful, though he didn’t say so because he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction, and he’d just end up sounding sarcastic anyway. Besides, Ushûl was busy, apparently dead-set on picking through every disused wrinkle of Durgrat’s brain.

“You don’t like fighting much, then? You must not have been too popular with that crowd,” she said, digging a stray shred of meat out of her front teeth with a neatly trimmed claw.

“Sha! It wasn’t that bad. I had a friend once,” said Durgrat. “No, wait. I had two friends. Well, one of them wasn’t so much a friend as a stoat that I trained to flip and roll over, and my other friend ate him.”

“What happened to your other friend?” Ushûl asked, failing to suppress a giggle.

“He left and never came back.”

It was her turn to stare silently in discomfort. Razashûk pretended to study the fire. 

After a few moments when it became clear Durgrat wasn’t going to start sobbing into his hands or mournfully eulogizing at the ceiling or any other fancy Mannish-tinged nonsense, she perked up again. “What’s it like living in a place with no women, anyway?” 

There was a glint in her eye that set Razashûk on edge. He hoped this line of questioning wasn’t going where he suspected. He’d heard enough stories about what a den of non-stop buggery Isengard supposedly was, and while the thought was entertaining, he’d prefer not to discuss it here now with Ushûl. Or anywhere with her, ever.

Thankfully the conversation was turned around without any nudging from him. “Nah, we had some. Not many, granted. I don’t think Sharkey meant to make them, it just...happened. The thing is, they blend in and you can’t really tell the difference unless you check their crotch.” He paused. “That’s not advisable. Saw a guy nearly lose his arm once.”

Ushûl snorted. 

“I kind of wish he had,” said Durgrat. “He was a shitheel.”

Ushûl reached over and patted him on the shoulder. When Durgrat turned to look at her, she nodded her head and gave him a nice big disfigured smile. “I like you.”

He shot a triumphant look at Razashûk.

“Nice try. You’re still on my shit list, just a lot further down now,” Razashûk told Ushûl.

“Look, all right, I’m sorry I took that one dead sparrow twenty years ago and scarred you for life.”

It was the closest thing to a sincere apology he was ever going to squeeze out of her, so he gave a grunt of acceptance and continued stuffing his face. He was just grateful she didn’t bring up any of the other games they played, like “Will It Burn?” or “Practice Groping and Get Yelled At”.

* * *

Ushûl had offered them the spare room to sleep in. She called it a combination guest bedroom and storage room, which was a quite diplomatic way of describing a nasty old mattress hemmed in by a bunch of broken junk. It was all terrible enough that Durgrat didn’t want to bother liberating anything from the heap. He wasn’t going to complain, though. It was good to be surrounded by walls again after being battered by the elements for so long.

He looked over at the Razashûk, who was fussing around with various belongings. Razashûk and his amusing lack of patience reminded him of the scrawny _snaga_ in the pits, sweltering away at the forges and digging up Uruk-hai when they were ready, or close enough to it. The smaller Orcs generally didn’t bother him, if they noticed him. It was his kin who always stirred up the most shit. 

He could handle it. It was just that punching someone, satisfying as it could be, wasn’t terribly shrewd, and he aimed to leave a more lasting mark, as it were. Having a pile of coins big enough to roll around in like a pig seemed a better revenge than anything.

He was charmed by how Razashûk had trusted him so readily, and felt a slight pang of regret at that “don’t flatter yourself” business when they’d first met. If they got killed before they reached their destination, or they got there and the treasure hoard was already ransacked, it would’ve been nice to at least get some dick out of the deal. He had no idea when he’d next meet someone he could put up with who’d stay by his side, or more importantly, someone who could put up with him.

He was glad their hostess was patient enough. Ushûl was strange, and he didn’t quite understand her affinity for tiny crawling creatures with far too many legs, nor where she drew the lines over which ones were acceptable and which ones were disgusting. Still, she was refreshingly gregarious, and stealing an entire house was pretty impressive, even if it _was_ just sitting there unguarded.

Durgrat sat down on the bed, testing it, not that he really expected it to be comfortable. The small, cramped room was hardly ideal, but something about it reassured him and reminded him of more familiar places. He missed the heat and noise. He missed the thrill of romance, of having someone give you a quick once-over and decide “Yeah, you’ll do for tonight.” Being in an enclosed space with something on fire nearby was good enough for now. Compared to the ugly lifeless grasslands, it was almost like home, before the forest uprooted itself and the water surged in and the world became huge, cold, and empty.

* * *

Razashûk was punching at the bed, trying to sort all the lumps into a more hospitable arrangement. Durgrat was, as usual, not helping. He poked around at the assortment of items shoved into the corners, dragging his fingers through the dust and squinting in confusion at why any of it was deemed worth saving. “Half a shovel. Who keeps _half_ a shovel?”

“You just met her,” said Razashûk. He plopped backwards in defeat, then squirmed sideways when he realized what an uncomfortable spot he was in.

“She’s kind of smart, though, underneath all that.” He turned away from the rubble and watched Razashûk throw a heavy pillow aside onto the floor. It landed with a dull thud that sounded as if it was full of padded bricks. “Shouldn’t you have noticed her traps?”

“I said I was a hunter. I never said I was a fantastic hunter. And usually I do the trapping, so it wouldn’t have crossed my mind.”

Durgrat seemed satisfied with that answer, and lay down, making an obvious effort not to take up the entire space. He stared up at the ceiling with a bit more intensity than Razashûk was comfortable with.

“Durgrat.”

“What?”

“Shut up now, because I’m going to sleep. This time, no wanking right next to me.”

His face fell a bit. “Oh. Yeah, that was thoughtless of me. Did you want to watch or join in? I should’ve asked.”

“Wow, smooth,” said Razashûk. “Tell me, what was your job back in Isengard again? Were you a courtesan, expertly trained in the intricate art of seduction?”

Durgrat made a rude gesture, and Razashûk silently accepted that he probably deserved it. It wasn’t as if he was any good at that sort of thing, either.

So when he stirred in his fitful sleep a few hours later and found the slumbering Uruk curled around his back, he mentally grumbled at how apparently Mr. Mighty Uruk-hai still assumed everyone would want to at least snuggle with him, because of course they did, because his lot were so much better than us _regular_ peasants...

But he was big and warm, and his breath wasn’t too foul or anything as it fluttered against the back of Razashûk’s head. He probably wasn’t even old enough to have any rotten teeth yet, Razashûk realized with an odd touch of discomfort. 

Durgrat mumbled something unintelligible and shifted his hips, and Razashûk froze. It felt as if there was a cudgel pressing into his spine. He supposed he’d be kind of a selfish twit about it too, if he had something like that to play with. 

* * *

Razashûk woke up at the crack of noon, his body rested and his mind relieved that Durgrat had already gotten up and left him alone. He gathered up his things and found the Uruk in the front room, packing a few small parcels of food Ushûl had wrapped up for them.

It was a perfect afternoon for traveling, with a gentle breeze rustling through the canopy and the sky still gloomy with slate-grey clouds. Ushûl was just outside the doorway, untangling a handful of the rope she’d caught them with. She offered to tell him the quickest route out of the forest, but the previous night he’d accidentally let slip he had a map, and she wanted to check it. There was no way he was going to let her in on this.

“Just let me peek at it.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Why? If I wanted to beat you up and take it, I would’ve already, if that’s what you’re worried about. All your crappy stuff is safe from the Toll Collector. I don’t need a map of where I already live.”

“Uh, it’s really old. Look at those claws of yours. One slip and it’ll be in shreds.”

“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

He crouched down and drew a reasonable facsimile in the dirt.

“Ah, we’re right about here.” She marked a spot on the map with a stick. “I know a trail that should let you cut through fairly quick,” she said, dragging a faint line over it. “And then turn here.” She swiped sideways. “If you see a big boulder that looks like a tit, you’ve gone too far. I mean, you should go see it, because it’s funny. There’s a nipple made of lichen and everything. But it’s off your path.”

She paused. “Oh, and be careful along this part. There’s thorny bushes everywhere, and they’ll scrape you up if you’re not paying attention. Stupid things don’t even have the courtesy to make up for it and grow berries or anything.”

“Maybe you can build some spider cages out of them.”

“Shut up!”

Durgrat sauntered out into the clearing, and Razashûk took this as a sign it was time to leave. He scrawled a copy of Ushûl’s notations onto the map (“Shortcut. Thorns. Enormous tit.”) and then quickly stashed it away again.

“Well, we ought to be going,” he said. He wavered a moment and then choked out a “Thanks,” despite himself.

“Try not to get killed,” said Ushûl, once again fiddling with her snares.

They set off. Ushûl and her house faded into the distance, overtaken by the haze hanging near the ground. Razashûk inhaled deeply, savoring both the damp air and the relief of having got this far without any grievous misfortune. The forest wasn’t a complete nightmare after all, and certain threats had diminished quite a bit with the passage of time. Certain other things were still rather annoying but turned out to have huge cocks. There really were important lessons all over the place on these sort of journeys. Heartened by the dark little clouds of hope hovering over him, Razashûk strode out into the murky depths of the forest, positive that the worst it had to offer was behind them.


	4. Here Lies Razashûk. He Never Scored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I promise I will never again quietly snicker at statements like “I can’t control my characters” or “the story writes itself, I don’t know where it’s going”. ~~Dear Penthouse, I never thought it could happen to me but~~ This was delayed because I went and gummed it up with some weird rambling aside that came from nowhere. Maybe I can salvage it into a little one-shot or something.

The surroundings grew older and darker as they ventured on, slender saplings giving way to massive trunks, some of which visibly shuddered when the Orcs passed by.  Their branches reached so high that in certain patches the forest’s ceiling wasn’t visible from the floor, fading off into thick mist.  
  
The Orcs stuck to the general area of Ushûl’s path to the best of their abilities. Razashûk wasn’t scampering like he normally would in such territory. Ever since the embarrassing incident with the snares, he had been studying the ground with extreme caution, on the lookout for any stray oddities or telltale disturbances.  He figured Durgrat could pick up the slack as far as inspecting the rest of their environment was concerned, since the Uruk had a better vantage point anyway.  So far, it appeared to be working, considering they hadn’t fallen prey to any of the zero hidden traps they’d encountered.  
  
Still, it was maddeningly slow going, and the gargantuan scale of everything around them only intensified their awareness of it.  Durgrat insisted that Razashûk was right, there was nothing immediately dangerous in the forest, and he was just fine, but his teeth were constantly bared and his hands gripped the strap of the bag he was carrying as if it were a fraying rope and he was dangling from the edge of a cliff.  He periodically paused to survey the layout and sniff at the air. Razashûk didn’t make a habit of actively looking for new scents so much as noticing changes in the present ones, and Durgrat’s inefficiency was beginning to grate on him.  
  
“Must you attempt to smell _everything_?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“In that case, have you at least found anything interesting?”  
  
“No, but if it stops smelling like just dirt and plants, then we’ll know to be even more careful.”  
  
Razashûk sighed and left it at that.  
  
They trudged.  Looking on the brighter side of things had never been one of Razashûk’s strong points, and his attempts at counting his blessings soon plunged into a bottomless pit of futility.  _At least these nasty old trees are all too huge and solid to take a swipe at us.  At least Ushûl gave us some food before we left.  At least neither of us got mauled by bears.  At least I have legs.  Some people don’t have any legs._  
  
The only thing breaking up the monotony so far was a smattering of color provided by an unusual flower that grew near the huge twisting roots of the most ancient trees, impossible to miss among all the browns and greys and muted greens. He bent down to get a better look at the plant.  Nothing like it grew anywhere near the Misty Mountains. Its spiky yellow petals were darker at the tips, bursting out around a center dusted with vivid orange pollen.  The stems were covered in glossy leaves with whitish spots near their jagged edges.  
  
“I’ve seen that in a book,” said Durgrat.  “The drawing made it look important. A whole page all to itself.”  
  
“What is it, then?”  
  
“No idea.  That could have been a book about poison, for all I know.  Plenty of ‘em of in Isengard seemed the sort to have something like that around.”  
  
“If it’s a big deal, we should take some and find out what it is later.  Just keep it away from the food.” Razashûk snapped off a handful of sprigs and tucked them away inside a stray scrap of cloth.  
  
The brief distraction only served to remind them how dull the rest of the forest was so far.  Getting slapped around by nature would have almost been welcome.  They made a brief stop to rest under a large half-dead tree, shaded by its bare and splintered branches.  The quietness of it all was smothering, but Razashûk was feeling too surly to share any more folklore at the moment.  He gnawed on a piece of dried meat that he was glad he hadn’t asked any questions about back at the shack.  
  
Durgrat’s stories, as usual, were rather limited in scope, mostly detailing vague, distant speeches from Saruman about the nature of the world and their role in it (apparently he never elaborated on much beyond crushing the domain of Men and grinding it to dust beneath their boots), or a particular shield-bearer he thought Razashûk would have got along with since they both loved complaining.  
  
“...liked going on about that.  Funny, since he had so many whiteskins from Dunland running about, doing his dirty work.  He’d perch himself up on some high place and start raving about the sun setting on Man’s weak and unworthy bloodlines forever, and all I could think was ‘You know, I’m pretty sure they can hear you from here.’  I’m not sure what he was expecting.”  
  
Razashûk had only been half-listening, but his interest perked up a bit when the Uruk mentioned his absent friend, simply because he wasn’t some wizard nobody cared about until he decided to stick his magical nose where it didn’t belong. “What was his name again?”  
  
“Graznákh. He had sharp eyes, really good with knives and darts and that sort of thing.  We both liked learning about things you can do with metal, watching them build things when we were supposed to be doing something else, but he was a lot better at it than me.  And some other stuff we had in common, I guess.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
Durgrat screwed up his face.  “What’s it to you?”  
  
“Fair enough.”  
  
“But yeah, I forgave him for eating my stoat.  Seeing him roll wasn’t _that_ great.”  
  
Razashûk ignored the answer to a question he hadn’t asked, and offered another one. “Why did he leave, anyway?”  
  
“Not by choice.  He got shoved into a raiding party.  Sharkey sent them off to go get something for him, like he’d already done a dozen times before, and they disappeared like all the rest.”  His eyes wandered somewhere off in the distance.  
  
Razashûk shifted and studied the ground.  He finally choked out “Perhaps some part of his spirit lives on in you.”  
  
Durgrat concentrated for a moment and then shook his head. “Nah, I’m still bad at throwing knives.  I’m pretty sure he’s just regular dead.”  


* * *

  
  
Gradually the path became more clear, as parts of the ground were marked with streaks of bare, compact earth, obviously well-worn by footsteps over the years.  It was no trade caravan road by any means, but it beat scanning every inch of cruddy ground for signs of sinister and humiliating trickery.  
  
It also served up a tiny distraction.  A collection of stones, arranged in a crude, wavering pattern that tapered off to a point, sat at the foot of a fallen tree.  Their sizes and colors were varied, but they were all rounded and smooth, as if they’d been plucked from an old river bed.  
  
“I think it’s a sign. But I don’t know what it means,” said Razashûk.  
  
“Oh good,” Durgrat said. “I’m not alone.”  
  
They pressed on, and the forest got brighter.  The dour silence in the air was chipped away by the occasional bird call or tiny scratching noise from various vermin hopping around.  
  
“There’s another one,” said Durgrat.  He motioned at a new pile of stones, similar to the one they’d run across earlier. He paused and narrowed his eyes.  “It smells different here.”  He inhaled again, long and deep, with his eyes shut and his brow furrowed.  “We should follow it.  That way.” He pointed and walked off towards an area that appeared less dark and clustered, and Razashûk trailed after him.  The trees soon thinned out a bit, becoming both smaller and more spaced apart.  Damp soil gave way to gravelly ground, and the source of the mysterious new scent became apparent.  
  
The stream was only about knee-deep, and not terribly wide either.  It burbled along at a leisurely pace and beyond the tiny reflective glimmers flitting across its surface, the rocky bottom was plainly visible.    
  
“I wonder if it’s all right to drink from it. We should fill up those skins while we have the chance.”  
  
Durgrat offered some more of that legendary wisdom from the White Wizard’s tower. “Careful.  Bad water makes you shit yourself to death, and that’s a terrible way to be remembered.”  
  
“Well, it’s clear and it’s moving.  That’s a good start,” said Razashûk. He scuttled closer as something caught his eye.  “Hey, look!”  
  
Durgrat followed him.  Near the edge of the bank was a small shrine, roughly built out of wood gone split and grey with age.  Traces of pale blue paint still clung to the sides.  A large flat stone at the foot of it was covered with assorted trinkets and mementos: bits of carved bone and clay, a scattering of tarnished coins, small strings of colorful glass beads, even a few bundles of long-dead wildflowers, now brown and brittle as the leaves underfoot.  
  
“I doubt this many travelers offered tokens of thanks for bad water.”  
  
“Huh.” Durgrat crouched down and prodded at a few of the items strewn in front of him.  
  
“We should leave something, too.  Don’t want the stream turning on us for being ingrates.”  
  
Durgrat snorted.  
  
“It can’t _hurt_ ,” Razashûk said.  The idea of such a gesture was comforting, a small vestige of the way things worked before Lord Sauron fell and the Great Eye was shut forever to ritual displays of loyalty and appreciation.  Whatever vast unknowable powers that still lurked in the realm of the invisible might take pity on a pair of Orcs, wandering across a land with no place for them, if they saw that even Morgoth’s spawn were occasionally capable of such things.  
  
Durgrat fished around in his belongings and produced a silvery key with a curlicued design on the end. He plunked it down among the other baubles.  “There, then.  If we die, don’t blame me.  I did all I could.”  
  
Razashûk took a tentative slurp from the stream, interpreted it as a positive sign that it tasted all right and he didn’t choke or vomit, then got to filling up the water-skins. He took out the map, marked it down, and scrawled “GOOD” across it for future reference, in case any of his hypothetical descendants (or if he really screwed up, a group of more competent scavengers wandering by his remains) needed a slightly outdated treasure map.  
  
They found a narrow spot and stumbled over the exposed rocks that formed a crude natural bridge.  When Razashûk stopped a couple hundred yards past it to check his map against the layout again just in case, he noticed an odd stone formation almost hidden by a tangle of vegetation.  He wasn’t surprised it was undisturbed. Mannish eyes would miss it in the gloom.  Fungus and ferns and various other green things engulfed it, and at a casual glance it appeared to be just another hillock made from a massive boulder lodged into the ground.  But Razashûk spotted little indentations in the carpet of greenery that were far too tidy to occur naturally, and one thin tree root was settled into a groove and grew down in a perfectly straight line.  He went in for a closer look.  
  
“Maybe it’s a secret cache,” he said. He scraped at the foliage while his head was swimming with visions of flighty Elves, like a pack of squirrels hoarding acorns, burying and then immediately forgetting about all their fancy knives and magic wine and bejeweled doodads as they tra-la-la’d all the way home.  
  
“I’m pretty sure it’s a tomb,” said Durgrat, tilting his head while he leaned in and stared at the now-exposed seams in the rough grey surface.  
  
“How would you know? You told me that where you come from, most people just get torn to shreds when they die.”  
  
“I’m not _stupid_.  Just because I’ve never been buried in a tomb doesn’t mean I don’t know about them.”  
  
“Right, I see your point.” He rolled his eyes and continued peeling away at the moss, brushing aside a few stray worms and bugs slithering over his fingers.  Durgrat hunkered down and assisted him, and soon they uncovered a heavy door. Together they managed to get enough leverage to shove it aside to discover what it had been concealing from such an obscure corner of the world. Razashûk still hoped he was right and this wasn’t an example of that ridiculous alien custom of building homes for corpses.  At the very least, it should be filled with dusty old provisions if there was any shred of justice left in the world.  
  
The interior of the cavern was much larger than Razashûk would have guessed, fading into pitch blackness going back into the hillside at least a good twenty feet.  It was a different flavor of dark silence than the forest.  The dryness of the cold stone walls and floor was a welcome change from the clammy air and mushy ground outside. “It’s really not bad in here,” he said, as his eyes relaxed after adjusting to the lack of light.  
  
Durgrat sighed and slumped back against the wall. “No, it’s not.  We ought to rest a moment before snooping around in the back.” The tension in his muscles visibly melted away as he slid down to sit on the floor, and for the first time since they’d entered the forest his hands were slack instead of balled into fists.  He untangled the mess of metal and leather covering his chest and dropped it aside, leaving just a layer of rough black fabric that looked like it might have been patched together by someone who didn’t have sewing knowledge, proper materials, or fingers.  
  
Durgrat stretched his arms upwards, then shifted around.  He looked infuriatingly at ease with his legs splayed out and his back bent so that his hips were tilted forward and...  
  
Razashûk took a deep breath.  It was time.  The air was calm, the light was low.  They were alone, with no threat of attack, or of creepy bastards lurking in the shadows.  He gathered every ounce of seductive skill in his body, lowering his voice and his eyelids in order to deliver his message as alluringly as possible.  
  
“I should, uhh, check you for tick bites.”  
  
He shuffled over, his blood pounding like he was in some pathetic youthful dream that had suddenly gone lucid.  He thudded down on his knees in front of Durgrat as gracefully as he could manage, and sneaked a hand up into his tunic, sliding across his abdomen.  Any other time Razashûk would have regretted not tripping him into the stream when he had the chance, but right now it didn’t matter that he was a bit too grimy.  Durgrat’s flesh felt tough and solid but quivered slightly at the touch, and he closed his eyes and made a low chuffing noise deep in his throat.    
  
He pulled Razashûk closer, and his mouth titled open and curled into a smile while his nostrils flared. Razashûk realized the Uruk was smelling him, and apparently liked what he smelled despite him being equally unwashed.  He flubbed around and finally settled his other hand on Durgrat’s thigh, cautiously stroking in and up while trying not to be too nervous about the weight of the huge arm rested on his back.  
  
Just as Razashûk had calmed his nerves and decided he was going to grab Durgrat’s other hand and show him exactly what to do with it, a chill swept in, cutting right through his clothes. He snapped backwards as Durgrat’s arms jerked away.  A low, muted voice hissed through the air and crawled along the walls.  “Who goes there?”  Neither of the Orcs could bring themselves to exhale, let alone answer.  
  
“Who goes there?” it repeated, louder and faster. This unearthly whisper didn’t so much go in Razashûk’s ears as it resonated right through him, jittering over his skin and rattling his bones.  Durgrat flinched, then looked up just enough to see something that make him go back to squinting downward.  Razashûk caught a bizarre flicker from the corner of his eye, but whatever it was faded from sight before he could be properly terrified by its visage.  
  
“Yeah, it’s a tomb,” said Durgrat.  
  
Razashûk was all prepared to reply with something snide about owing him a beer or maybe the next bird he shot, but his voice caught in his throat as if there were long, cold fingers wrapped around it, ready to squeeze.  



	5. Tragic Sacrifices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah! I should’ve mentioned, I’ve done a couple drawings for this:
> 
> http://morgulmotel.tumblr.com/post/82355846965/  
> http://morgulmotel.tumblr.com/post/81022493203/

“You’re lucky I’m too petrified to slap you,” said Razashûk.  
  
“Great, you’re terrified.  That’s a big help.  See if you can piss yourself and maybe it won’t want to get its boots soiled.”  
  
“I didn’t say scared,” he hissed through his clenched teeth, “I mean I can’t fucking _move_.”  
  
Durgrat took a sharp breath and tried to hurl himself sideways, but it was as if his limbs were made of stone.  
  
Razashûk sneered.  “What were you going to do, kill it?”  
  
“Enough,” the unearthly presence wheezed as it glided across the floor, sputtering in and out of perception. It gave the impression of a tall, skeletal figure sheathed in some sort of elaborate raiment, but was too indistinct to reveal anything for certain. “You disappoint me,” it said, glancing downward.  “Long have I awaited a living champion to release me from my bonds, and instead I get a couple of smelly vagrant Orcs looking for a secluded place to jerk each other off.”  
  
“Well, the world has changed,” said Durgrat.  
  
It sighed, letting out a burst of freezing air. “Nothing changes for me.  I hunger and suffer.  All who face me must answer the curse’s demands.  If they succeed, my torment is ended.  If they fail, I drain their very life force from their bodies, savoring their agony, and gain their power.”  
  
“That sounds like an awful lot of work for the likes of us.  Why couldn’t you just stay hidden and enjoy the show?” Razashûk asked.  
  
“Perhaps if you were less ugly,” it said.  
  
“I’m not ugly,” said Durgrat.  “And Raz isn’t either, he’s charming, really.  See, still has all his fingers and most of his teeth, and that’s pretty good all things considered.”  
  
Razashûk ignored what he wasn’t sure was a compliment or not, and looked over the blank walls. “Must be boring here.  I assume your curse involves not being able to leave, or you would’ve gotten out of this dump ages ago.”  
  
“How perceptive of you,” it said.  Durgrat could’ve sworn it rolled whatever was left of its eyes.  
  
Razashûk would’ve squirmed if he could have.  “Let’s get it over with, then.”  He hoped to come up with some clever maneuver to outsmart the thing or catch it off its guard once the big fight was underway.  It always seemed to work out like that in the tales he’d heard.  
  
“Only an enchanted weapon of astounding power can even hope to strike me.”  
  
“Oh. Well, we haven’t got anything that impressive,” said Razashûk, mentally adding “...yet,” and trying not to think about the possibility that they’d never reach that leg of the journey thanks to their ungracious host.  So much for fancy footwork saving the day.  
  
“You cannot leave without facing me in battle, whatever form that battle may take.”  
  
Razashûk frowned. “Can we at least move our arms and legs again? Like you said, it’s not as if we can hit you.”  
  
The spirit sighed and made an odd wavering motion, and the Orcs’ limbs went slack.  Durgrat kneaded at a kink in his arm and cursed under his breath.  
  
“It rarely comes to this, as I’m accustomed to a certain quality of challenger.  But,” it made a sad crackle, “I suppose I should be used to disappointment by now. You may test me by solving a series of riddles to prove your worth.”  
  
“Really? Riddles? That’s a bit of a letdown for me, too,” said Durgrat.  
  
“Do you want a chance at leaving alive or not?”  
  
“Fine,” said Razashûk.  “We’ll play your lousy game.”  
  
The spirit braced itself and made a noise that sounded like a winter wind ripping through bare-branched trees.  “All right, here comes a good one.  What stands on four legs in the morning, two legs in the aftern...”  
  
“It’s a person,” Razashûk butted in. “A child crawls, an adult stands, an old fart needs a stick to lean on, and a dead one needs to try a little harder at this.”  
  
“Hnnnrh.  Fine, get a load of this: What goes into the water red and comes out black?”  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Durgrat.  “Even I know that one. It’s hot iron.”  
  
The spirit pressed on. “What is it that you can keep after giving it to someone else?”  
  
“Lice,” said Razashûk after deliberating for a moment.  
  
“Or an itchy rash!” Durgrat chimed in.  
  
The spirit froze in place a minute, then began flickering back into motion.  “Ehh, I suppose.  But you only got that one on a technicality,” it grumbled.  “Those weren’t the answers I was looking for.”  
  
“Nobody looks for those, they just sort of happen,” said Razashûk.  
  
“The point is it doesn’t really count!” A circle of frost burst around the spirit, then dissipated as quickly as it came.  Their challenger continued undeterred.  It uttered various old saws about death, stars, time, love, silence, and potatoes, then finally gave up when “What belongs to you, but others use it more than you do?” sent both Orcs into a fit of snorting laughter (and a mutter of “I wish” from Razashûk).  
  
“You two think you’re awfully funny, don’t you?  Well, guess what? _You’re not_.”  It crossed its spectral arms.  
  
“Hey, wait! This stupid curse doesn’t even make sense,” said Durgrat, who had managed to calm down despite Razashûk’s pointy claws grabbing at his shoulder in an attempt to push himself back upright. The smaller Orc flailed and fell again, still clutching at his stomach.  “Why not just throw the fight if you hate it so much here? Being dead has got to be better than this.”  
  
“And you didn’t make up any rules for solving the riddles, not even weird bullshit ones,” added Razashûk. “You’re just stalling until we starve or something, aren’t you?  Then you’ll pick our pockets and put our bodies in embarrassing positions.”  
  
“Nonsense. My liege, the Lord Sauron, would be most displeased if I were to give anything less than my utmost effort.”  
  
“I, uh, have some bad news about your liege,” said Razashûk, whose laughter had died down for good now.  
  
The spirit glided closer, radiating a strange force as it got uncomfortably close to Razashûk.  “Tell me.”  
  
“That is, there was a war on, and see, what happened was. Uh. We lost.”  He flinched as if the presence would take it out on him personally upon hearing that.  
  
“Ah, but such trials have befallen my master before...”  
  
“No, he’s gone,” said Razashûk.  “I felt it.”  
  
“Son of a wagon wheel,” it sort-of swore.  
  
“So really, the important part is we’re all on the same team here.” Razashûk nodded and smiled a little too wide.  
  
“Don’t push it,” said the spirit. “A curse is a curse.  I may not have to try all that hard anymore, but I’ve got to take something from you, at the very least.  Picking your pockets doesn’t sound like a bad idea all of a sudden.”  
  
“Don’t,” said Durgrat. “Your hands look really cold.”  
  
“How about you simply give me something for my treasure hoard? It could use some improvement, as you can see.” It gestured at an empty corner. “There are rules this time. No stones. It makes no difference how beautiful or shiny or strangely-colored they are. Stone surrounds me on all sides and I am weary of looking at it.  No earthly weapons, as I have no need of them. And none of that metaphorical tripe, either. The game of riddles is over.  I don’t want your word or your forgiveness or any of that worthless crap.”  
  
The Orcs looked baffled.  Durgrat glanced up at the spirit and down at the bag next to him several times as if it would magically know what was in it and tell him what to rummage for.  Razashûk drummed his fingers on the wall and squinted.  
  
The spirit regained a bit of its regal bearing. “You must have something,” it said. “Preferably a keepsake quite dear to you, so that I may bask in the wounding of your soul.  But I’ll settle for something that’ll stave off a little tedium once in a while.”  
  
“Wait. I’ve got something that’s both, I think,” said Durgrat after a moment. He grabbed his pack and dug out a slender book with a dark red cover, most of its embossed detail worn away long ago. He handed it over, looking as reluctant and mournful as a mother sending her firstborn into exile in the wilderness.  
  
The spirit flipped through a few pages and made a loud inward hiss.  “Where did you even find this?”  
  
“From some creepy old bastard, where else?” said Durgrat.  
  
“What is it?” asked Razashûk.  
  
“It’s a book of poems,” said the spirit.  
  
“Pfft! How is that ‘quite dear’ to you? Even ignoring that you don’t exactly strike me as the poetical type, you can’t read.”  
  
“It’s got pictures, and from what I gather from those, they’re all poems about fucking,” said Durgrat.  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Well, I guess not _all_ of them.  I’m pretty sure some of them are about sucking and licking, or using your fingers to...”  
  
Razashûk lunged at the spirit. “Let me see!” The Orc went right through its ethereal form and thudded to the floor. “Please,” he said, craning his neck up.  The word came out more like an angry wad of spit than like a polite request.  
  
The spirit waited a moment, motioning as if stroking its chin in deep thought.  Razashûk’s eyes were twitching in impatience.  It finally bent down and lowered its blurry face to meet his gaze. “No.” It righted itself and made a show of slowly turning the pages while holding it up just out of Razashûk’s reach.  “Oh, she’s going to be sore in the morning. I didn’t know you could even do that.”  
  
“Do what? What?”  
  
It ignored him and let out an eardrum-piercing whistle as it continued with its art appreciation. “My, but those are some hefty spears those soldiers are polishing.”  
  
“I knooow. That’s my favorite,” said Durgrat.  He stared off at nothing with a big dopey grin on his face, which only aggravated Razashûk further.  
  
“Well I’m glad _someone_ gets to enjoy it!”  
  
“You don’t look glad.” The presence shut the book. “You do, however, look defeated.  It does me good to feel such frustration and pain swirling through the very air around you.  Not to mention seeing you fall and smack your head. This tragic new world is not completely ruined and hollow after all.”  The center of its chest lit up with a soft, sickly glow, which brightened when Razashûk took a swing at it. The foggy borders of its form moved in tiny ripples, almost as if it was laughing.  “Consider your obligation to me fulfilled.”  
  
“So we can go?” said Durgrat.  
  
“Yes, you twits. Now do exactly that, because I need to study this artifact.”  
  
They exited the burial chamber and left the spirit to its devices, murmurs of its hissing voice still echoing off the walls. “...a horse, really?”  
  


* * *

  
  
And so the Orcs left the haunted tomb behind, and decided to seal the door back shut behind them, piling a few more big rocks in front of it for good measure.  Whether it was to keep the mysterious being inside or prevent anyone else from having to deal with its time-wasting malarkey, neither of them was certain.    
  
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a book like that? And if you say ‘You didn’t ask’, I _will_ cut you.”  
  
“Right then, I won’t say it.”  
  
Razashûk growled.  
  
“But the fact you never got to see it saved us from...I don’t know, listening to that thing whine some more.  You wouldn’t have gotten as angry.”  
  
“I suppose.  Though it’s kind of shit that you keep losing things as we go along. Next time we have to fork something over, I’ll do it.”  He didn’t mention that this was mainly because he suspected Durgrat had much better stuff than him.  Better to give up something he wouldn’t miss, or could easily replace.  
  
“It’s all right,” said Durgrat. “I didn’t mind how it all turned out.”  
  
“Having it around would’ve just made me look like crap in comparison anyway,” Razashûk said.  “I mean, not that I wouldn’t have eventually botched it back there if we’d kept uh, going.”  
  
Durgrat stopped in his tracks.  “Aren’t you tired?” he asked, with an exasperated look.  
  
“Nah. I can keep walking for a good ten miles, at least.”  
  
“No, I mean of that thing you’re always doing.”  
  
“What, swearing at the sun?”  
  
“No, you have to add something shitty on to everything you say.  Like you’ve got to ruin a good thing before anything else even gets a chance to. ‘Oh, I’m going to go shoot that bird.  Not that I’m a real great hunter or anything. If I hit it, it’ll be by accident.’ Wouldn’t it be easier to just shut up and kill it?”  
  
They went on in silence. Razashûk’s attempts at smoothing things over when they stopped to rest sank like a corpse in a bog.  
  
He tried telling a joke.  Durgrat furrowed his brow.  “Why didn’t they just explain that the guy’s name has two meanings?  None of that pointless trouble would’ve happened.”  
  
He tried seductively sucking on Durgrat’s fingers when they ate.  “That’s _my_ squirrel blood, you little shit,” he said, and shoved Razashûk aside.  
  
He tried offering his extra blanket, threadbare as it was, when they settled down to sleep. “You think I can’t take care of myself?” Durgrat said.  
  
After all that Razashûk was particularly cross, even without the pebbles in his boots and the lumps under his head.  He felt cheated that they’d already started squabbling before even getting a wedding night, as it were, and now assumed that they’d just skipped the fun part and gone straight into the resentment at being stuck with each other until one of them died or got bored.  Then he berated himself for being that presumptuous in the first place. Nothing had really happened between them anyway.  
  
But he couldn’t very well cut him loose, since he knew what Razashûk was up to, and Razashûk wouldn’t put it past him to blab about it to the first shifty cutpurse he ran into after being ditched.  Better to have the Uruk close enough to keep an eye on.  
  
The surroundings were unsettlingly quiet, and he slept fitfully, tormented by the worst kind of dreams: the slow, mundane ones that were just boring enough to seem absolutely real, yet were too good to be true.  He dreamed that he wandered home and all was as it had been before.  Sauron’s gaze enveloped the mountain as he sat in front of the fire and ate part of the boar he’d slain and brought back, while contented voices burbled around him.    
  
He stirred awake and could almost feel the hot fat trickling down his fingers.  The hunger was real enough. He gathered his bow and arrows and squinted upwards. For once, he hoped the sky would soon be full of stupid, cackling birds, flying low.  


* * *

  
  
The trees continued to thin out and the trail they’d been following joined up with another one when they reached a fairly large clearing.  This path was well-trodden too, but unlike the one winding through the depths of the forest, it was wide and there were obvious signs that the dirt on it was recently stirred up by boots, hooves, and wheels alike.  
  
Durgrat surveyed the layout. “This looks like a real road, that real people use.”  
  
“Well, if we’re going anywhere near respectable civilized folk, might as well freshen up and slightly decrease our chances of getting murdered.  You may want to try and do something about that rat’s nest on your head.”  He nodded towards a small stream that looped out into the clearing and ran back into the trees.  It was a little cruddier and more bug-infested than the one they’d found back in the middle of the woods, and lined with slimy silt at the bottom, but still clear and stench-free.  
  
The Uruk stepped into the water and untied his tangle of hair and combed through it with his fingers, doing his best to undo the knots and pick out the dust and dirt.  After a few minutes, he lost patience with it and wound up tearing off the ends of several strands that felt beyond salvaging. He found himself wishing he’d pilfered a comb at some point. Not that there’d been a ton of those lying around back in Isengard, but still.    
  
A sudden splash made him jolt, and he turned to see Razashûk pop up out of the water, scratching at his long limbs with a unpleasant-looking scrap of rough cloth.  He’d apparently shrugged off his clothes quicker than a greased weasel, and the sheen of wetness made him look even more sinewy than usual.  An impressive pair of deep, ridged scars on his upper arm stood out especially well.  Durgrat decided he would have to ask him about it on a less peeved and soggy occasion.  
  
Razashûk made his way back towards the bank and dug a thick knife from his pack and gave the blade a cursory examination, running a finger along the slightly nicked edge. He dunked it in the stream and scraped it against the sides of his head, missing only a few stubbly spots.  After he ran his hands along his skull and was apparently satisfied, he bit at his claws with his crooked teeth and returned the clippings to nature from whence they came, spitting a bit louder than he probably needed to.  His pale eyes reflected the surface of the water and the slits of his pupils shrunk in the light, low as it was.  
  
Durgrat told the ghost the truth.  Razashûk wasn’t ugly.  
  
After figuring they were as clean as they were going to get, they rested on the bank, waiting to dry off a bit more before stabbing onward.  Razashûk couldn’t let that happen in peace and quiet, and began whistling, which he wasn’t particularly good at.  A monotonous, deflated-sounding tune whooshed out of his mouth while he tied his hair back in place.  
  
“Razashûk.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Just because I don’t really like slugging people doesn’t mean I won’t do it.”  
  
“Before you punch my head off, can I at least put the rest of my clothes back on? I already had one utterly humiliating defeat only yesterday, and I’d like to space them out a bit.”  He fiddled with the various fastenings on his worn garments.  “Look, is there anything that would make you less annoyed with me right now, short of me actually fucking off and dying?”  
  
Durgrat narrowed his eyes and glared at the smaller Orc, who cringed and shrunk away. “Tell me another story.”  
  
Razashûk gathered all his strength to keep from bursting out laughing. Durgrat made an offended little grunt that didn’t help with that, but fell quiet as Razashûk began. “A long time ago in a forgotten corner of the world, there was an old woodcutter whose only son ran away from home.  The woodcutter wasn’t bothered by it that much, since the guy was sort of a lazy pillock anyway, except he’d taken Dad’s axe with him and he’d a be a pretty fucking lousy woodcutter without it...”


	6. Memory, Sorrow, and Porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a while, and I freely admit it was mostly me not wanting to even _look_ at a sex scene I originally wrote 7 years ago. So almost all of this chapter was entirely rewritten from scratch. I hope I’ve managed to pummel it into acceptable shape.

This one took a while, and I freely admit it was mostly me not wanting to even look at a sex scene I originally wrote 7 years ago. So almost all of this chapter was entirely rewritten from scratch. I hope I’ve managed to pummel it into acceptable shape.

* * *

As always, Durgrat trudged and endured.

Razashûk was babbling on about some guy he knew who wasn’t that bright but once found a bag of coins stashed among the roots of an old tree stump anyway, which he assumed was supposed to be encouraging. Perhaps it would have been, if he wasn’t so weary of near-misses and stumbling blocks. And if they were only looking for a bag of coins stashed in an old tree stump.

Finding the shrine on the banks provided some small comfort, since it made the world seem less empty. Dozens of people made it this far, at the very least. No doubt even more had and simply not bothered to leave evidence.

Still, Razashûk’s talk of appeasing the Great Eye had left him restless. Powers he couldn’t hope to understand still held sway even after they were dead. He did his best not to let on that he wasn’t quite the perfectly molded cog in Saruman’s vast machine that Razashûk seemed to think. The smaller Orc was disdainful enough of his homeland as it was, and he didn’t need any more fuel. 

The Voice called and called, echoing across the earth and rippling through the river, but he never heard it, not the way other people did. In this, he and Graznákh were a little less alone when they found each other. They were both indifferent to its power, battered by the sheer sound of it, but their hearts and minds remained unmoved.

He knew by now he would never feel that mysterious force singing in his pulse or exhaling along his skin, and never could have. The closest he came was those bony old fingers jabbing between his ribs once, followed by an approving nod. That had been a long time ago, when he was barely out of the ground and the Wizard still deigned to check on his army’s progress in person once in a while. Durgrat had been too intimidated by the mere idea of Saruman to meet his gaze, and regretted it now.

Knowing he hadn’t been cracked in the skull or left to cook too long in the pit only made it worse. It wasn’t so much that he even wanted to feel that compulsion for himself. But it ached, seeing others being capable of that kind of excitement over something that as far as he was concerned didn’t exist. Their shared direction and bond always seemed just out of reach. Others found it, and therefore each other, without even trying, and he was a stranger, forever gazing into some happy family’s locked window.

He was snapped out of his stewing by the sound of buzzing insects and chirping birds and Razashûk growling at the both of them. He squelched a laugh with a _pffft_ noise and caught up to the other Orc, who had scrambled ahead of Durgrat’s measured steps in a vain attempt to somehow outrun nature and all its attendant pests.

* * *

Their gradual descent along the road led out of the last vestiges of the forest’s edge and into a wide plain, green and rolling and dotted with intermittent clumps of small trees and shrubs. Wildflowers leapt out in bright sprays of pink, white, and yellow, attracting the occasional flittering butterfly or bumblebee. It was enough to make them sick.

Squinting and and frowning, they followed the winding strip of earth. The ground beneath their feet was dense and packed, unlike the forest floor with its layers of dead leaves and softly decaying debris, and deep ruts carved out by countless wagon wheels cut into it among all the marks left by hooves and boots. 

“This is worse than the forest,” said Durgrat. “I thought it was bad in there, but at least there were places to hide.”

“I know,” said Razashûk. “And I hate the way it smells here.” Pollen and grass wafted into his face, carried on the irritatingly gentle breeze. He would’ve given anything for a noseful of musty swamp muck or the metallic, earthy stink of fresh guts after a hunt.

“Me too,” said Durgrat.

A noise stirred in the distance ahead. Durgrat wrinkled his face as if something even fouler than the scent of fresh flowers hit it. They edged away from the road and towards a clump of bushes that just barely could be considered cover if one was particularly full of wide-eyed hope and could contort into a tiny ball. Unfortunately, both Orcs were lacking in those sort of traits, and instead crumpled themselves into the scrub, shoving and swearing at each other under their breath while trying not to draw attention to themselves individually. “Be stealthy, you big stupid pillock,” said Razashûk as he elbowed Durgrat. 

“I _am_ stealthy. You just can’t keep calm or quiet, you yapping runt. I could stay still if you stopped pushing me.” He clamped a hand over the smaller Orc’s mouth just in time for the source of the sound to appear. 

A solitary Man strode along the road, his boots thumping softly as his cloak fluttered in the wind. Unlike the procession of peasants they’d dodged back at the beginning of this rigamarole, this one looked polished and full of purpose. His clothing was dusty and a bit worn, but clearly well-made and likely a uniform of some sort, seeing as the deep greens and browns of each garment matched so well. More importantly, there was long, sturdy-looking bow slung across his back, and he carried an equally impressive sword. His pale eyes were watchful beneath his hood, wandering but never losing focus.

Razashûk hissed. He could sense Durgrat tensing up out of the corner of his eye. Clearly someone dropped the ball somewhere, because an arrow whooshed towards them, and Razashûk rolled out of the way just in time for it to pierce right through his pack. “Son of a whore!” he snapped, irritated that he couldn’t even smoothly cheat death without looking like a clod in the end and getting something of his damaged. He grabbed for the knife at his waist and crouched, ready to spring.

“Halt! Drop your weapons!” the Man bellowed, as if they were going to indeed drop everything and blithely obey someone trying to shoot them. “And clean up your language!” he added. “I can’t have any foul sailor-talk when I parade you scum through the town square in chains! There will be women and children there.”

Razashûk hardly saw what that had to do with anything, flashing back to memories of sitting with his siblings at his mother’s feet while she flayed the skin from a recent kill and scraped out the gore in preparation for tanning it, softly swearing to herself on the rare occasion the knife slipped.

Nonetheless, that apparently stirred something in Durgrat. “Fuck off!” he replied as he righted himself and bared his teeth, demonstrating how much taller he was than their adversary. 

The Man glowered and took aim once again. Durgrat hurled a dagger at him, which missed by several feet but was still close enough to make him panic and scatter. Razashûk figured this was probably not a good time to agree the Uruk was terrible at throwing knives. They already would have to argue about who drew the bastard’s attention to them in the first place, after all.

“This isn’t over!” the Man said, despite all evidence to the contrary. “There are dozens more of us!” he added as he ran back in the direction he came from.

“That much I can believe,” said Razashûk. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Durgrat darted over to retrieve his knife, then followed Razashûk back towards the gloomy edge in the distance.

The Orcs dashed away from the open road and retreated a bit further into the forest, skulking along the darkest patches they could find until they reached a small clearing relatively free of lumps or pointy things strewn on the ground.

“The road’s not safe,” said Durgrat.

“No shit!” Razashûk caught his breath and leaned back against a tree. He felt its bark flinch at the contact with his skin, but it barely registered underneath the crazed speed of his pulse and the desperate gasps catching in his throat.

Razashûk cursed himself. What kind of twit just blindly followed a map without considering it probably wouldn’t be as simple as traipsing along as the crow flies? In hindsight it was lucky the journey had even gotten this far without any significant danger on the path itself. He managed to unfold the map and make a jittery note about not going near that area if you knew what was good for you, then carefully plucked out the arrow impaled through his bag and made sure nothing was irreparably damaged. Fortunately, it only went through a chunk of dried meat and a spare cloak that was already full of holes.

“At least you got a free arrow out of it.”

He made a rude gesture at Durgrat and choked out a laugh, one of those painful ones that was more the result of relief than amusement. He still felt rattled and wary, and apparently he wasn’t alone. Durgrat was sitting on a big lichen-covered log that creaked under his weight, slumped towards the ground with his eyes closed. The fog of his breath came out of his nostrils in short bursts, and his mouth was pulled into a toothy grimace.

After a few moments Razashûk pried himself away from the tree, which no doubt felt a shudder of relief of its own, and slid over to a soft spot on the ground carpeted by patchy, dark green moss. He was sure it was a lot more comfortable than Durgrat’s splintery seat, and decided to shove thoughts of blame and criticism aside for now, and try and soothe his companion instead. He patted the ground next to him. “Uhm. Uh. Durgrat, c’mere.”

“What?” The Uruk made his way across the clearing towards him. The moonlight reflected in his eyes with a pale yellow glow, and the gentle breeze playing through the trees made their subtle shadows dance over his face. Once again, some inexplicable force of fate had taken pity on Razashûk and given him a second chance.

“Aren’t you feeling, uh, tense?”

“Of course I am.” He stared at Razashûk like the Orc had just tied a rotten fish to his head and was expecting a compliment on how smashing it looked.

Razashûk ignored that and beckoned, then shuffled closer when Durgrat knelt beside him. “That stupid armor looks like puke and you should take it off,” he blurted.

Durgrat snorted, but nonetheless got to doing just that, tossing his metal breastplate aside with a loud thud that made Razashûk flinch a bit, considering he’d rather not draw any more attention over to them from anyone or anything. But he quickly shrugged it off and got to helping Durgrat undo his boots, though for some reason his hands kept slipping upwards. Durgrat fiddled with the fastenings on Razashûk’s clothes, his fingers slightly too big to comfortably deal with them. Razashûk could have helped him, but was enjoying making him work, and grinned when he finally got the hang of it.

He paused when the wind made a weird noise in the branches. “Are you sure? Just, you know, this might be the last time we’re safe...”

“What is _wrong_ with you?” said Durgrat. “Why are you talking about getting killed right now?” This time his bafflement had an amused edge to it. He nestled into Razashûk’s throat, inhaling deeply through his nose and breathing out through his mouth with a soft rumble.

Razashûk writhed around and slouched forward, trying to minimize the focus on his chest and hoping Durgrat somehow wouldn’t notice his nipples. He’d got them pierced on a whim years ago, hoping to impress some vague shadow of a person who never quite materialized. _Look at me! I’m very knowledgeable about matters of physical pleasure and I really like myself, honest._ Now that someone was finally looking, the dark metal rings seemed silly and shameful, a ridiculous juvenile bid for attention he hadn’t earned. What made _his_ nipples so special?

That didn’t stop them from making it feel great when Durgrat ducked his head down and sucked on one before Razashûk even had a chance to try and squirm away. The Uruk’s mouth flicked over the ring, sending little flutters of warmth along Razashûk’s skin. He arched back without thinking.

“I’ve never seen that,” said Durgrat. The Orc opened his mouth but only stammered indistinctly. “No, I like it.” He gave Razashûk a gentle shove down onto his back and moved his head lower, nuzzling against his belly. Razashûk jolted when he felt the Uruk’s hand spread his legs apart and begin exploring between them, then went slack as his huge tongue slithered and prodded further down, hot and tremendously slick. His breath quickened and he let out an embarrassing squawk when Durgrat ran his tongue around the head of his stiff prick and then plunged it into his mouth. 

It was incredible, the wetness and warmth and the way Durgrat’s tongue and lips moved and the fact anyone would even want to get that close to him...

Durgrat pulled away, letting the Orc’s cock smack against his cheek when it popped out. His eyes pierced through Razashûk as he peered up while languidly rubbing his face against the length of it. The corner of his mouth curled up into a satisfied smile when it twitched. Razashûk shuddered and gripped the back of the Uruk’s head. The squirming tension pooling in his body was radiating through his limbs now, overwhelming him, and he looked back at Durgrat with wide, ravenous eyes. He meant to say something like “Oh” or “Fuck” or maybe even “Please,” but all that managed to escape his throat was a jagged moan. 

Durgrat understood nonetheless, and took Razashûk back in his mouth, continuing to fondle and suck while Razashûk combed the Uruk’s hair through his hands, his fingers tracing delicate, meaningless patterns on his skull. Durgrat made a low humming sound when he felt everything begin to quiver and tighten beneath his rough hands, no matter where they wandered. Razashûk rolled his head back and in a few quick throbs he was spent, pouring into the Uruk’s maw. When Razashûk’s hips stopped contorting and his neck snapped back in place, Durgrat sat up and unceremoniously swiped at the corner of his lip.

Razashûk really wanted to do nothing but lie back and close his eyes, drifting in and out of blissful semi-consciousness. But Durgrat was still right beside him, hard and panting, and he couldn’t just leave him there to finish himself off, not after what he’d done. 

“Do you,” he faltered for a moment, realizing just how big Durgrat really was relative to him, “...do you want me to do that to you, too?” His defensive gutter mouth had apparently fallen into a mystery hole somewhere along with his strength.

The Uruk paused a moment to catch his breath. “It’d be nice, but I’m not going to cry if you don’t want to. I’ve got hands.”

Razashûk was already painfully aware of that, and decided to meet him in the middle. He felt a bit of heat return to his face as he scrambled to right himself, then tugged and stroked Durgrat’s cock, surprised at how smooth the flesh of it was. He wasn’t sure why he expected otherwise. He twisted his fingers around, sliding the foreskin back and forth. Durgrat gasped and his thighs tensed. Returning the favor didn’t take long. He was already so wound up Razashûk didn’t have to do much of anything before he bucked his hips up and growled, then spilled all over Razashûk’s hand.

Razashûk barely had time to wipe himself off on the moss before Durgrat grabbed him and pressed the smaller Orc against him, resting his head on his chest so that his heartbeat thrummed in Razashûk’s ear. His breath was heavy and his eyelids drooped as he gazed off into the blackness, squeezing Razashûk’s backside with one hand while running the other up and down along the bumps of his spine.

“You’re good,” he said. “You’re really good.”

For once, Razashûk didn’t poke about for clarification or question the sincerity of what he heard.

After what could have been an eternity of stillness, Durgrat shifted. “We need to move along,” he said.

Razashûk’s limbs were still slightly weak and shaky, and besides, he hadn’t felt that good in ages for any reason. “Can’t we just stay like this a few more minutes?”

The Uruk sighed. “All right,” he said, and let Razashûk slump back against him. “But I think I saw something odd over there.” He motioned his head towards a patchy spot running nearly parallel to the road.

“Odd like what?” Razashûk asked, a bit jarred. “Odd like some twigs being rather out of place, or odd like fresh corpses with pieces missing?”

“It’s probably nothing,” said Durgrat. Razashûk nodded and then rested his head once more.

As the darkness grew thicker, a few minutes of rest turned into a few hours. They untangled from each other and shuffled back into their clothes when the cold air began to bite too hard. Neither of them particularly felt like putting much effort into foraging, but had built up a ferocious hunger, so they tore into what was left of the rations. After eating, they sat in silence for a few minutes, then Durgrat lost his patience with all that insufferable peace and quiet and decided to find out if he had actually spotted anything after all.

Razashûk watched him from the corner of his eye as he went off to investigate, but wasn’t terribly engrossed. He was preoccupied with too many things rattling around inside his cranium already, fragments like _I didn’t expect that to be nearly as good as it was_ , and _Well I guess I’m not completely repulsive after all_ , and _Maybe now we don’t even have to get in some shitty argument about that idiot_ tark _getting in our faces_ , and _No, seriously, that was pretty nice_. Every single one was slightly overshadowed by _Oh fuck, what have I done?_ He felt as if he’d tried to untangle something, but put a dozen more knots in it instead.

He’d have to untie them later, though. Durgrat’s voice roared out from the foliage in a most un-stealthy manner. “Hey, Raz! I was right! Come look at this.”

Razashûk traipsed off towards him.

“Someone left footprints and didn’t bother trying to cover them.”

“Shit. They’re pretty big,” Razashûk noted. 

Durgrat nodded sagely but kept his gaze on the ground. “Well that’s interesting,” he said, as he hovered his leg next to one of the dents.

“Huh?” Razashûk didn’t follow.

Durgrat stomped down and then inspected his fancy footwork. “Whoever left these has the exact same kind of boots as me.”

_Fantastic. Make that a lucky thirteen knots, then._


	7. Strange Alliances

Razashûk wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of meeting another of Saruman’s wayward spawn, but figured they were less likely to get killed by another Uruk-hai than by whatever else patrolled the Mannish road. Following the careless footprints led to a patchy path that hadn’t seen much use, and soon enough they found the source, near the mouth of a small cave embedded in the side of a hill. They approached, slow and cautious.

His hair was blacker than midnight at Angband in the dead of winter, and his skin resembled nothing so much as charred meat. He had a solemn look about him, and when Razashûk and Durgrat were close enough that their steps were audible, he acknowledged the other Orcs’ presence with nothing more than a curt nod, then immediately turned his attention back to the crackling fire in front of him.

“Not anyone I know,” Durgrat whispered, more to himself than anything.

“Hello,” said Razashûk, figuring he might as well try to ingratiate himself. The Uruk got up to get a better look at them, sighing and straining as if it was some monumental task.

Standing up, he was even taller than Durgrat, and had he not been slouching only a moment earlier, the other Orcs would have assumed he had an iron rod stuck up his arse. He glared at them both, unblinking, and the only twinge of expression he finally let slip was his upper lip curling into a hint of a sneer.

He remained silent, so Razashûk prodded him. “Why didn’t you cover your tracks? We found you, and so could anyone else.”

“I’m not a coward. I do not wish to whimper and hide from those who would hunt me.”

“I see,” said Razashûk. For that statement alone the hulking Uruk struck him as not terribly bright, but in a completely different way than Durgrat. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“You first,” said the Uruk.

“We’re uh, going east, just for a change of scenery,” said Durgrat. “We teamed up because it’d be less lonely and boring, I guess. He needed someone to carry things, I needed someone to help squeeze into tight places.” He smirked and nudged Razashûk.

“And that’s why we lost,” the Uruk said. “People like you, ruining it for the strong and capable, lashing yourselves to our backs and crippling us with the burden of your inferiority.” He turned to Durgrat. “You especially should know better. How is that scrawny maggot going to be any use to you? Saruman didn’t make us powerful so that we could bend to the beck and call of the worms wriggling on the ground.”

“I _like_ how he wriggles,” said Durgrat. Razashûk elbowed him back.

“You could at least give us a name to put to that gloomy face of yours,” Razashûk said.

“I am the great warrior Morburzhûn,” said the Uruk. “I hail from the iron fortress at Isengard, now tragically fallen into ruin.” He made a very dramatic gesture, thumping his chest and gazing up at the sky.

“Oh, I’m from there, too,” said Durgrat. “If you’re so great, how come I’ve never heard of you? What have you burned down, who have you slain and eaten?”

“You’re the foolish one if you haven’t heard of my deeds,” said Morburzhûn, though he still didn’t bother naming any. Razashûk couldn’t help but notice his armor looked nearly spotless and he didn’t have so much as a skinned knee.

“Seriously, I don’t even remember you throwing your weight around down in the caverns. Have you at least kicked anyone in the nuts for getting out of line?”

“Let me know when you’re ready to take things seriously,” said the dour Uruk, who then went still, eyes shut and arms crossed in front of his chest.

The other Orcs turned away to confer between themselves. “I hate this guy,” said Durgrat.

“Me too,” said Razashûk, feeling an odd little wobble in his guts at the thought they could be bonding over their shared dislike of big stony bastards who could feel no joy but the grim satisfaction of dominance.

After a few more minutes of doing a spot-on impersonation of a disapproving statue, Morburzhûn shifted and cleared his throat. “Against my better judgement, I will allow you to share my campsite, just this once. However, as underlings, you must abide by these basic ground rules...”

“Holy fuck, _cram it_ ,” said Razashûk. “We didn’t ask for your pity. We can build our own fire. I’d rather freeze than put up with this.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” said Durgrat.

Morburzhûn frowned. “Don’t waste resources,” he said. “Just be quiet and stay put, and we’ll be safer together.”

Razashûk hissed and looked at Durgrat. Durgrat looked like he was going to give the other Uruk a begrudging nod, but just sort of let his head slump to the side and hang there. “You’ve got a point.”

Morburzhûn flexed his shoulders. “I will return when my work is done,” he said, and strode away.

* * *

As he came back, the soft night murmurs of chirping crickets and hooting birds were soon overtaken by a raspy voice and occasional bursts of laughter. He found Razashûk and Durgrat crouched together in the cave entrance, near the dying embers.

“...so the woodcutter finally untangled the last vine from around his ankle, ran out of the cursed thicket to the edge of the gorge and reached the bridge, only to discover it had fallen apart...”

Morburzhûn let out an exaggerated _harrumph._ “Look at you dolts, loafing about with your heads in the clouds. While you were swapping your little fairy tales, I was gathering supplies to ensure my survival. How have you even avoided death this long?”

“I’m delightful,” said Durgrat. “You last longer when people like you.”

“I applaud your subtlety,” said Razashûk. “Speaking of which, I’m sneaky, that’s how I do it. You don’t need to be strong if nobody fixing for a fight even notices you.”

The insults apparently bounced right off Morburzhûn’s helmet of a skull, and he continued scolding, unruffled. “Nobody ever conquered the world by skipping past it whistling a merry tune.”

“I don’t think anyone ever tried,” said Durgrat.

“I’m really not sure what else you were expecting us to do,” said Razashûk. “It’s not as if there’s any washing up to take care of. Or any food to fix,” he added with a pointed look.

Morburzhûn chucked the firewood to the ground and clenched his jaw, conspicuously baring his fangs, and appeared to be on the verge of giving some sort of lecture when the sound of snapping branches and rustling leaves rudely interrupted him.

The Orcs all spun around, and made various displeased faces. It was the ranger that Durgrat and Razashûk had run into on the road, and apparently they weren’t alone in that, as Morburzhûn waved his fist and howled “You!” when the Man emerged from the greenery.

The ranger flinched and nearly dropped his knife. “Crap!”

“Oh, look who’s cursing now,” said Razashûk.

“I wasn’t expecting all of you, having a malevolent little convention for making your disgusting plans! I was only looking for the really big one.” Before Morburzhûn could protest that he wasn’t affiliated with those other, unworthy peasant-Orcs, the ranger charged towards him but got his foot snagged in a hole and stumbled. “Son of a...” he paused to collect himself, “Son of an apple core!”

Razashûk and Durgrat snickered. The ranger glared. “I’m sorry you don’t appreciate attempts at class and dignity.”

“Oh, we appreciate them,” said Razashûk. “We need all the laughs we can get out here right now.”

“Step aside. I’ll deal with you later. This creature needs to be put down like the mad dog he is. I’ve seen what he’s capable of. He’s scum.” The ranger glared at Morburzhûn with a far more intense disdain than he showed towards Razashûk or Durgrat.

“See, that’s what we’ve been trying to tell him, but he won’t listen to it coming from us,” said Razashûk.

The ranger swiped at the air in front of him as if fanning a stench away. “Don’t try to commiserate with me!” He backed off and found himself entangled in a cluster of dead branches. He yanked his cloak away from the tree, then inspected the newly-ripped hem. “Aw, fish guts!”

Even Morburzhûn’s mouth twitched a little at that, though he managed to crush his face back into submission before it displayed too much non-scornful emotion.

“I will return, mark my words!” The Man flung himself back into the leafy darkness and disappeared.

“We, uh, defeated him, I guess,” said Durgrat, as he wandered off away from the disarrayed campsite.

“Don’t think this means we’re friends now,” Morburzhûn said.

“Don’t worry,” said Razashûk. He rolled his eyes and stomped off after Durgrat, who was sitting on a boulder, fidgeting. 

“That _tark_ followed us, and that fucker who ought to at least _try_ to get along with the few of us left...” He trailed off and scowled. 

Razashûk plunked down next to him and leaned against him. “And I really wanted to mess around with you some more, but...” he swept his hand in the direction of Morburzhûn and made a fart noise.

“Yeah,” said Durgrat, grimacing at the other Uruk, who was still preoccupied with staring very intensely at the now-rekindled fire. 

“What an insufferable shitstain. No wonder he doesn’t bother to hide. Everyone listens to him for a few minutes and then just leaves.”

“And ‘Morburzhûn’, really?”

“Hah, I know! That can’t possibly be his real name,” said Razashûk. 

“Yeah, he probably got one of those crap ones from when the overseers got bored and didn’t feel like coming up with any more good names, and then nobody liked him enough afterwards to give him another. I knew a few who got saddled with those. This one deserves it.”

Razashûk was surprised to hear that naming among the Isengarders wasn’t all that different from the way his own tribe approached it. He wondered if Durgrat had kept the name he was born with. 

As usual, there wasn’t much time for him to sit around and marinate in his meandering thoughts. They jolted when a harsh and not particularly discreet whisper came from the shrubs behind them. “Psst. Hey.” They jolted again when they realized it was the ranger, coming back for...what? He put his empty hands up and then waved them over. “Come over here. I have an idea,” he said.

“We know your idea. It’s to capture and kill us, and we don’t like it,” said Durgrat.

“No, no, this is a different one,” the ranger replied.

The Orcs looked skeptical.

“Hear me out, please. I find myself in a bit of a troublesome situation. I need to prove myself. I’ve been patrolling this road ever since I became a ranger, and aside from you two and that other Uruk just this past evening, not a single suspicious person has been encountered, and no dangerous incidents have happened.”

“That’s good, though, right?” said Razashûk. He knew Men weren’t supposed to make much sense, but even for them this seemed a pretty stupid thing to complain about. He began to ponder if the Man was a ranger at all, or just some stray loony who happened to have nice clothes.

“Yes, but it makes _me_ look bad. As far as most everyone’s concerned, the world outside the village walls is a terrifying morass of deathtraps and bloodthirsty monsters. Since I haven’t got rid of any, obviously I must not be very good at my job.”

The Orcs remained quiet, not sure where he was going with this, and fairly sure he’d be bad at his job either way.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but I thought up a plan that could benefit all of us. It comes from a story my grandmother told me when I was little. It was about a clever man who claimed to be a troll-slayer, but the troll was in on it the whole time, and he traveled from village to village gathering fame and fortune for pretending to slay it. It could be just crazy enough to work.”

“Oh! I know that one, except you’ve got it wrong. It was a plucky young Goblin who befriended an Elf with a head injury, and at the end there was an earthquake and everyone died,” said Razashûk.

“What’s in it for us, exactly?” Durgrat asked.

“You’ll share in the bounty I collect for ‘killing’ you. Also I have a great abundance of potatoes. It’s only my wife and me at the house, and we just can’t eat that many.”

Razashûk scrunched up his face in thought. Durgrat perked up at the mention of food that didn’t require effort to obtain, aside from feigning one’s death in front of an entire hostile village.

“Hold on a moment,” said Razashûk. He signaled to Durgrat to follow him, and they backed out of earshot. “Do you think this is on the level? Frankly, it’s tempting, seeing as he doesn’t seem sharp enough to swindle us.”

“Yet he’s willing to swindle whoever runs that village.”

“Hmm, you’ve got a point there. Maybe the big boss is a just a fucking moron, though.”

“Aren’t they all,” said Durgrat.

They both went quiet for a moment, then Razashûk looked back to see that the Man’s pale face was still poking out from the foliage and staring at them in anticipation. “We should either give him an answer or stab him and get it over with,” he said.

“Let’s see where this goes,” said Durgrat. “We’ve already taken some strange chances and are still alive.”

“I can’t argue with that,” said Razashûk. They sauntered back over. Razashûk cleared his throat, which had no effect on the scratchiness of his voice, and said “We accept your offer.” 

The Man’s face lit up. “Fantastic. I’m called Torold, by the way,” he said, with a hopeful look as if he was expecting something in reply.

“Uh. All right, then,” said Razashûk. Durgrat remained quiet. Torold’s smile faded, but he nodded.

“There’s a huge fallen oak tree down the road a ways, split right in half down the middle. You can’t miss it. Meet me there at dusk tomorrow.”

“Fine,” said Razashûk. After all, if they had second thoughts, all they had to do was not show up.

They shared an uneasy respite at a tolerable distance from their ungracious host, then packed up while Morburzhûn drifted off to sleep in order to avoid having to explain their leaving, or making some attempt at a farewell out of habit. Razashûk figured the huge Uruk would be happier just having them disappear without bothering him anyway.

He slung the last of the bags over his shoulder and made one final look around to be sure they hadn’t left anything too suspicious. “I forgot something. I’ll catch up to you in a moment,” Durgrat reassured him.

After a few minutes, Durgrat reappeared, easily catching up to Razashûk. “Raz, check out what I got.” He waved the Orc over, and proudly displayed a shamefully pristine black leather bag, no doubt filled with various items they had no time to fawn over. Razashûk didn’t have to ask where it came from.

“Oh, what the fuck?! I don’t know if you noticed, but Morburzhûn’s got a pretty foul temper. Sassing him is one thing, as he seems awfully accustomed to it, but you’ve crossed a line here.”

“Don’t worry about him,” said Durgrat.

“But he could pulverize us!”

“Yeah, but he’ll have to stand up first, and I tied his boots together while he was asleep. Oh, and one of his gauntlets is lashed to his belt. I would’ve got the other one, but he started twitching.”

Razashûk wasn’t sure if he wanted to smack Durgrat or attempt to shove him to the ground and do any number of filthy things to him.

“That’s what he gets for saying those things.” Durgrat peered back towards the cave and sneered. “Who’s stupid _now_?”

Razashûk picked up his pace and zigzagged towards the road, telling himself that at least he didn’t have to worry about the ranger, even as little shreds of doubt with names like _liar_ and _ambush_ teased at the corners of his mind. He hoped they wouldn’t make too many more enemies before the journey was over, pretend or otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Morburzhûn_ = “black dark heart”. I know, right?


	8. Cunning Plans

Dusk came and went before the Orcs reached the promised meeting spot. The sky was calm and veiled, with a tiny sliver of a moon and only a few bright pinpricks of starlight twinkling through the black haze. After cautiously taking a convoluted route back to the large road, they followed it, Durgrat keeping an eye near the ground while Razashûk occasionally scampered up a tree to survey the terrain for any sneaky ranger tricks, which he found no sign of. They finally stopped to rest a moment when they saw their destination up ahead.

There was, indeed, a dead oak tree by the side of the road, split in two as if some colossal axe had fallen from the sky and cleaved it. A soft rustle from the undergrowth behind it revealed that Torold hadn’t broken his word despite the Orcs’ slow arrival.

“Hands where I can see them,” Razashûk hissed. Torold flung his arms skyward, dropping a cloth sack that landed with a distinct thud. Razashûk figured there was definitely something to this idea that he wasn’t a very good ranger after all, if this was his idea of being graceful and inconspicuous. “What’s in the bag, clever-clogs?” he asked. He couldn’t tell if Torold was up to something, perhaps signaling some co-conspirators, or genuinely inept, and the Man’s antics were making his stabbing hand get a bit twitchy.

The ranger crouched down and reached into the sack, his eyes still locked on Razashûk, and produced a pair of green cloaks, faded and worn but still perfectly serviceable. They were too small for Durgrat, meanwhile Razashûk nearly tripped on the hem of his a couple times while fastening it. But the heavy fabric hoods would hide their faces well enough as long as they kept their distance. “I was just trying to help,” said Torold. “No need to be such a stinky egg about it.” Razashûk knew those were harsh words coming from him, and made a mental note to maybe consider apologizing if they all lived through this.

Not far beyond the tree was a wide bumpy hill, with a path that led to a large wooden wall with a gate someone had left open, wavering and softly creaking in the breeze. “Before anyone says anything, that wasn’t me,” Torold whispered. Apparently he wasn’t the only one drawing suspicion about his qualifications.

He skulked his way into the village, and the pair followed, keeping a safe barrier of a dozen or so paces between themselves and the Man. Neither of them felt terribly at ease in such alien surroundings. Despite their different homelands, the Orcs shared one piece of wisdom: it was wiser to dig into the earth than to pile things onto its surface.

It was disquieting weaving among so many dwellings and buildings clustered haphazardly together, poking up out of the ground, right where anyone could come crush and burn them into oblivion if they were so inclined. Razashûk and Durgrat had both heard plenty of stories about such things, of course, but it was different witnessing the vulnerability firsthand. No proper guards or watchmen, not even a wary beast to bark or growl at disturbances, no apparent escape routes to whatever safety could be found in the depths below. The village was less like a prized quarry, and more like a sick old deer dragging itself in circles on a broken leg. Suddenly the distress at leaving its security in the hands of Torold and his ilk was more understandable.

“I don’t like it here,” said Durgrat. “It smells off and everything’s laid down all strange.”

Razashûk preferred not to dwell on it. “You bitched about the plains and the forest too. Do you like anything that isn’t a cave full of big sweaty morons groping each other?” He wished Durgrat could learn some dignity and just quietly seethe and resent everything until the dam burst and he ended up screaming at a bird or punting a rotten log into a pond while cursing Morgoth for ever bringing the mere possibility of him into existence.

“Maybe,” said Durgrat. He looked down with an exaggerated, wide-eyed face that reminded Razashûk of a Warg pup begging for scraps. “I’ve only been here a short time. There’s just so _much_ I don’t know.” Razashûk rolled his eyes and spat through his teeth. He noticed Torold backing away from the glowing window of a small house and gesturing, and stomped over to meet him.

The ranger stood by the entrance to the house, which was made of splintery wood that was dull and weathered and obviously quite tough. There was a newly-repaired fence surrounding it, and a small garden with slightly lopsided rows of various green things sprouting from them. “I’m just going to let Dagna know we’re having a couple unexpected visitors,” he said. The Orcs attempted to shrink in the shadows against the side of the house just in case anyone strolled by. After a moment, Torold popped his head back out and motioned for them to come inside.

The interior of the house was warmer, in every sense. The wooden walls were just as rough and bare as the outside, but untouched by sun and wind, they remained a pale golden brown, and the floor was covered in rugs made of sheepskin and woven fabric, a welcome change from the cold muck outdoors. There was a stone fireplace, filling the air with crackling heat, and just off to the side of it hung a charmingly dreadful painting of a horse. Or possibly a boulder. Razashûk couldn’t help thinking this must be something like what Ushûl’s shack must have looked like, a long time ago.

A plump, broad-shouldered woman with her hair tied back in a thick braid was stirring at a pot of something that smelled like oddly appetizing dirt. Durgrat noticed Razashûk’s gaze wandering over her ample figure and smirked.

Torold frowned at them. “Would you...don’t...that’s my _wife_ , you twits.”

“I can see why,” said Razashûk.

They weren’t quite out of earshot, and the woman turned around at the murmuring voices behind her, then jumped back. She caught her breath and glared at Torold, though her eyes kept snapping back towards the Orcs. “Oh. Great. What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Let me explain! This will get us out of that mess we’re in, trust me. Dagna, meet...” he paused, “...uh, the Orcs. Orcs, Dagna. Also, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you they were Orcs.”

“I’ll be a ranger, he said. Once I’ve got a proper job I’ll give up all these schemes, he said...” She sighed. “I can’t believe you didn’t at least get their names before dragging them in here. No wonder you never weaseled your way into high society.”

Torold shook the dust out of his cloak and put it up near the fire while the guests introduced themselves properly to Dagna. Her weak Mannish tongue stumbled a bit over Razashûk’s name, so he told her it was all right to shorten it, though he doubted she’d want to talk to either of them very much anyway.

“This will all make sense when I tell you what I’ve got planned,” said Torold, “but I think we should settle down and eat first. I’m sure I’m not the only one tired and hungry from all that time out in the dank and cold.”

Dagna nodded. “It should be ready by now. Make yourselves comfortable. With reason, I mean.” She looked at the Orcs as if they were getting ready to chop up the furniture and set the roof ablaze.

“Relax,” said Durgrat. “We don’t want to wreck your stuff.”

“Yeah,” said Razashûk. “Don’t, uh...what’s the saying? Judge a book by its cover?”

“Exactly,” said Durgrat. “That one I gave away didn’t have any fucking on the cover, for example. It was just plain.” He beamed with pride at his brilliant observation.

Dagna opened her mouth but Razashûk shook his head at her. It was bad enough being reminded of that unknown treasure slipping through his bony fingers. She appeared to understand this avenue of questioning wasn’t worth going down, and got to plopping down a set of wooden bowls on the table and filling them with the stew she’d been cooking.

Razashûk waited to watch their hosts eat first, just in case it was poisoned. Once satisfied that he wasn’t going to start coughing blood or pass out and never wake up, he scarfed it down. It was more meat-flavored potatoes than anything, but he wasn’t going to complain. After all, it could’ve been poison-flavored.

He was loath to admit it, but he did feel less on edge with a full stomach, even as the people around him seemed intent on destroying any chance of a small lull of calmness. While Torold paced around in a corner gathering his thoughts as Dagna stared impatiently, Durgrat fiddled with the disgustingly shiny buckles on the bag he’d swiped from Morburzhûn.

“Must you fuss with that right now?”

“Uh, yeah. I want to know what’s in it. Think of it as practice for when we finally, um...actually find something good,” he said.

“Speak for yourself. I don’t need to practice looking inside containers,” said Razashûk, clenching his fist and trying to stifle the irritated growls he felt rising in his throat.

Durgrat ignored him. He flipped the bag over and dumped out its contents. A round glass jar of some thick, suspicious-looking black substance rolled out onto the table’s wobbly surface and Durgrat caught it just before it hit the floor. He unstopped it and took a sniff. “Huh. It smells like dead plants, but none I really know of,” he said, setting it down with a look of disdain. “It’s all sweet and wimpy. I doubt it does anything fun, like explode when you throw it.”

Dagna grabbed the jar and cautiously dabbed some of the gunk on her fingertip, then smeared it against her thumb and let out a little huff of a laugh. “I think it’s hair dye. I knew a girl who went grey at twenty or so and concealed it with something a lot like this. Of course, it looked much stranger than if she’d just let it be...”

The Orcs tried their best to keep their composure at this revelation, but their best only lasted about three or four seconds. The knowledge that Morburzhûn was not innately built of pure darkness wasn’t terrifically surprising, but it was delicious nonetheless.

“It’s not _that_ funny,” said Dagna. “I felt a bit bad for her, even though we never got along that much.”

“Well, we’re monsters,” said Razashûk. Durgrat nudged at his foot under the table as if to tell him _No, act like we’re not, you fucking dolt_ , but kept on grinning. He snorted again when the smaller Orc leaned over and whispered “I bet it’s actually... _dark brown_. Oh, the shame.”

The rest of the haul wasn’t nearly as amusing, but still, they were grateful for the handful of scummy coins, several strips of clean cloth torn into bandages, and the knife-sharpening stone.

Meanwhile Torold had figured out how to best present his plan. “Here’s the idea, right,” he said, slapping his hands down on the table and looking intensely at everyone. “We all know about the bounty for bringing down any creatures of evil and corrupted origin, or that make us nervous.”

Dagna crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“So, we just trick the elders into thinking I’ve killed these two. We split the reward with them, and I look like the best protector this village has ever had, seeing as nobody else has slain so much as an ill-tempered squirrel. I earn the people’s devotion, the Orcs gain material wealth without resorting to violence, and we can maybe stop eating old potatoes three times a day, every day.”

“Well, that’s not the absolute worst idea I’ve ever heard,” said Dagna. “But it’s going to take a lot of planning and smarts if it’s going to end with no actual deaths.”

“It can’t be _impossible_ ,” said Torold. “There are at least two stories about people doing it, after all. Remember, that one about the troll-slayer?” He left out the part where the version Razashûk knew ended with everyone dying.

“Ah, I do vaguely recall that one. We used to have a storyteller in the town I was born in,” said Dagna, her eyes drifting over towards the fire.

“Oh, really?” Razashûk asked, a bit curious about Mannish tales.

“Yes, he was just awful,” she replied. “He thought stories ought to be more realistic and believable, so they were very boring. Even if the action did pick up for once, everyone kept stopping every couple of minutes to take a whiz or adjust their boots. But nobody ever told him how bad he was at it, because he was the tax collector’s nephew.”

“Hah!” Dagna flinched a bit, then relaxed after realizing Razashûk was smiling and not simply baring his teeth.

Torold sighed. “We’ll sort out the actual strategy tomorrow,” he said. “It’s too late to think.” He wandered off into a small side room.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Dagna called after him. She tidied up the table, stacking the dishes and sweeping all the stuff Durgrat had strewn everywhere back into the bag. She gave Razashûk a pointed look. “Don’t think I didn’t see the way you’ve been gawking at me,” she said, narrowing her eyes and making a thwacking motion with the long wooden spoon in her hand. “Don’t try and feed me any clever lines, either. I’ve heard plenty of _those_ kind of stories, too.” She set it down and turned to follow her husband.

“Wait,” he stopped her, “I have to ask, why are you both so...not pissing yourself with fear? I thought you lot were supposed to be terrified of Orcs but your composure is pretty impressive.” Few Mannish folk had ever had peaceful dealings with Razashûk’s tribe, and those who did came from lands far to the south and east. They carried themselves in a different manner than their paler cousins, and their loyalties lay with the Great Eye rather than petty turnip-farm lords.

“Who do you think I heard them from?” she said, and slipped away into the dark.

* * *

The Orcs had slunk over to a makeshift bed near the dying embers, and both of them fidgeted trying to get as comfortable as possible, which had little to do with the actual sleeping arrangements. The house creaked without provocation, they could hear Torold snoring in the next room over, and there was an occasional indistinct sound from outside that could have been distant footsteps. Razashûk exhaled sharply while adjusting the pile of wadded-up clothes he was resting his head on.

“Trouble sleeping?”

Razashûk nodded. “It’s creepy knowing we’re surrounded, and that woman has got me rattled.”

“Yeah, she’s smart. We should be careful.” 

“It isn’t just that,” said Razashûk. “She sort of reminds me of someone I knew. Same kind of body, same willingness to hit me with a stick when she caught me staring at it.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know how else to respond.

Razashûk seemed like he might be drifting off again, but Durgrat still slid his hand into the other Orc’s inner thigh and nudged his face into the crook of his neck.

“She smelled like the riverbanks after a thunderstorm,” Razashûk mumbled. 

Something in his voice hit Durgrat in the crotch like a fistful of ice. Even if the Mannish couple hadn’t been right over in the next room and the house hadn’t been spooking him in general, there was no chance of getting off tonight. He pulled away and rolled over onto his back, then shifted closer to Razashûk a few moments later when he noticed he looked rather pathetic and shivery, curled up all by himself like that.

He hadn’t been anyone’s big comforting dead weight for a while, not since...he frowned. Nothing in this place let his thoughts wander anywhere nice for too long, from the naked defenselessness of the layout to the knowledge that aside from their unusual hosts, they were among people very unlikely to settle for only pretending to kill them. He suspected it was having a similar effect on his companion. They’d barely got any mileage out of the fact that Morburzhûn didn’t actually have hair blacker than the saddest wraith’s dirge-writing ink, and Razashûk failed to inhale his food with the usual enthusiasm or make any weird little scribbles on his map. (“Shitty village begging for a razing” was what Durgrat liked to think he would’ve written.) 

There wasn’t any point in going over every tiny thing wrong with where they’d found themselves. Instead he pondered over just how much the reward for two dead Orcs was, and the various ways one might devise to split it up and skip town without leaving any loose ends.

Razashûk kicked him in his sleep, and he figured he probably deserved it.


	9. We Can't Even Die Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, it's been a while. Happy Orctober!

Glints of sunlight broke through the raggedy curtains. Razashûk squinted and adjusted to his surroundings. He got up using Durgrat as a bolster, and nudged the Uruk a bit harder when that failed to awaken him.

“Mmmf,” said Durgrat. He rolled over and grunted again as he opened his eyes. “I forgot we were here. I’m not looking forward to this.”

“Me neither. That’s why it’s best to get it over with,” the smaller Orc told him. He looked over and noticed Torold and Dagna were already awake. Dagna motioned him toward the table, and handed him a chunk of bread. 

“It’s not much, but you should eat something before you die.”

He snorted and wolfed down the offering. Durgrat soon appeared by his side, and did likewise. Torold yawned and took a seat across from the Orcs.

“Time to get this plan hammered into shape.”

They all gathered around the wooden table, which creaked under the weight of everyone leaning on it and trying to look like they were concentrating very hard.

“So, we act horrible and then you bring us to justice,” said Razashûk.

“We’re going to need a bit more to go on,” said Dagna.

“We’ll be dragged to the town square, as I’ve been told Men do. Torold will stab me, but not really. I’ll play dead and Durgrat can distract everyone by begging and pleading for his miserable life to be spared. Dagna will drag me away into the woods, seeing as I’m a corpse, and nobody enjoys those.”

“I knew someone who did,” said Durgrat, who didn’t look too thrilled at having that memory dredged up.

“You knew someone who does everything,” said Razashûk, rolling his eyes. “Let’s stay focused. Durgrat, you’ll try and make a break for it, or surrender and promise to behave from now on, depending on the reaction your pathetic display gets.”

“I’ll chase him and push him off a cliff, or lead him into exile someplace very far away,” said Torold.

“I’ll defend Torold’s honor if it’s questioned,” said Dagna.

Razashûk nodded. “Let’s get a move on, then. Torold, you’ve got a knife, right?”

The ranger huffed. “Of course I do.”

“Good. Durgrat, where’s that jar of black dye you nicked?”

“I’ll go get it,” said the Uruk, and he dashed over to rummage though his belongings.

“While you’re working with that, we’re going to set a trap at the door while we’re gone, just in case anyone gets suspicious and wants to snoop around here,” said Torold.

“Good thinking,” said Razashûk. Durgrat tossed the jar at him and he caught it. “Dagna, do you have any scraps of cloth?”

She nodded and ducked into the other room, producing the remains of yet another old green cloak.

“One last thing: can you get some mud from outside? Just a handful or so.”

“Fine,” said Dagna, and she trudged out.

After a few minutes of everyone rearranging themselves, Razashûk sat down to attempt crafting a sealed poultice that would appear to leak Orc blood. Durgrat watched at the window for any nosy folks strolling by. Torold was apparently making a snare of some sort, and Dagna set about chopping up some vegetables and making a stew over the fireplace. That didn’t have anything to do with the plan, but she knew everyone was still hungry.

The corner of Razashûk’s mouth twitched up. “You’re so helpful. I’m not going to go as far as to say I like _you_. But I like that you’re not very bothered by us.”

“Not particularly, no,” she said. “I mean, I have no reason to judge. Back in the old village, I had a friend I was awfully close with. We said it was just practice for when we found men, but...” she blushed and looked off to the side.

Razashuk’s eyes widened and he cackled. “I wasn’t even talking about that. I just meant that you didn’t beat us to death with a chair for being Orcs the moment we stepped in your house. And _we’re_ supposed to be the ones focused on base desires. Thanks for sharing, though.”

Dagna shot him a snotty look. “Enjoy it. You’re not hearing any more.” She turned back to her chore.

Torold, who had been over in the corner fumbling with a pile of rope and sticks, looked up and snapped at them. “Could at least one of you stop talking about who stuffed their fingers in what and help me figure out how to arrange this stupid thing?” He huffed when the rope got tangled in yet another unintended knot. “Son of a piemaker!”

“Like I said! I didn’t say anything about...” Razashûk trailed off and decided to save up his obnoxiousness for when he’d really need it later. He went over to Torold, and knelt down and examined the mess. “What kind of trap is this even supposed to be?”

“Er, the kind you get your ankles caught in,” said Torold.

Razashûk scrunched up his face and untangled as much of it as he could. “It’s uh, not really. Who taught you how to do this?”

“I looked at a book one of the other rangers had once, a few years ago. I can’t read that well, but it did have pictures of people getting stuck.”

“I see. Look, leave this part to me. You go talk to your fellow rangers and sow the seeds of panic. Be charming, and make sure they don’t fucking swear. You wouldn’t want to look bad while you’re lying to people.” 

Torold sighed. “Right. I should probably attempt to build up some suspense. I’ll tell them I saw someone skulking around the fence and take it from there, I suppose.” He put on his cloak and headed out the door.

Razashûk turned to Durgrat. “All right, so, when it comes down to it and we’re ‘captured’, you throw yourself to the ground and wail, going on about how your Mannish blood has won out over your wicked origins, and you seek repentance.” He paused. “You should probably think of something more impressive to repent for than swiping trinkets and harassing unlikable wanderers.”

“I burned down villages and ate everyone’s guts and drank their blood. Then I took their money.”

“Good enough,” said Razashûk. He looked down at the mangled components and then swept them aside. “Whatever he was trying to do couldn’t trap air. I can rig up a trip-wire easily enough if they’re really that concerned though.” 

Torold returned not long after. “They don’t suspect a thing. Everyone really thinks I’m on the trail of some mysterious skulking vagabonds. It’s rather exciting!”

Razashûk had finally managed to get a blob of dye secured inside a coating of mud and fabric. He prodded at it with a stained finger, satisfied it would hold without oozing or bursting.

“Is there a trap set at the door?” asked Torold.

“No,” said Razashûk, gritting his teeth. “I was working on something more important.”

“But what if someone wants to take our furniture?”

Durgrat, sensing that his companion’s head was about to explode, hit the side of the pot with a fireplace poker, producing a loud, dull clang. “Hey, I’ve got an idea, too. Everyone shut up and take a break.” It was possibly the mightiest surge of leaderly initiative he’d ever shown. The pitmaster would’ve been proud (then wondered where his whip had disappeared to).

Torold went over towards the fireplace and murmured an apology to his wife for snapping at her earlier. She ruffled his hair and they wandered off to the side garden.

Durgrat sat down next to Razashûk. “I don’t know _everyone_.”

“What?” Razashûk was still half-distracted by the array of items scattered in front of him.

“Earlier, you said I knew someone who did everything. Not true. I never knew someone who made me feel quite like you do, who decorated his body like yours, who made the noises you do when I lick your...”

“Ugh!” Razashûk said. “Are you _sure_ you don’t know how to read shitty poetry?”

“You’re welcome.”

“You take me by surprise, is all,” he said. “I mean, when you did things like ask if I wanted to jerk off with you. I thought you were making fun of me.”

“No wonder you’re lonely,” said Durgrat. Suspecting he’d just made a very poor choice of response, he shifted closer and put an arm around Razashûk. “I’m glad you’ve stuck by me.”

“Yeah. Let’s get ready to go march to our deaths.”

* * *

Torold stormed into the middle of the village, with the Orcs in tow behind him. Their hands were bound, though in sloppy knots they could easily slip out of, unbeknownst to the onlookers gawking at them.

Razashûk was the first to be confronted. “I found this creature trying to sneak through the gate,” said Torold, “No doubt intent on murder and mayhem.” Razashûk hissed at the crowd for effect.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense, monster?” Torold asked.

“My only regret is there aren’t more of you to kill!” Razashûk snarled as he freed his hands and made rude gestures with them. 

Torold growled and lunged at him with his knife, just barely grazing his shirt as he slipped it between the Orc’s arm and body.

Razashûk shrieked, grabbed at the supposed point of entry, and squeezed the poultice full of stolen hair dye, giving the impression of a burst of pitch-black blood spewing from his side. The crowd visibly flinched. He dropped to the ground, gurgling and twitching, then lay as still as he could, slowing his breath just like he did when sneaking up on a particularly jumpy quarry.

Dagna rushed over. “Oh, what a disgusting mess my husband made,” she said. “Don’t worry yourselves, I’ll dispose of this. I consider it a family responsibility.” Razashûk had expected her to drag him over the bumpy ground, and felt a twinge of both surprise and relief when she hefted him up and slung his slack form over her shoulder. She shuffled off to the edge of the forest as fast as she could with the semi-dead weight.

Durgrat feigned shock at the sight. “Oh, what a horrific fate. And poor me,” he said, looking up at the sky with wide, mournful eyes, “I’m just a wretch, trying to atone for my wicked ways. This world is so vast and full of wonders, and I’ve been kept confined in darkness by my cruel master since the beginning, knowing nothing of virtue. I’ve finally seen the light, thanks to the corruption in my veins being diluted by Man’s noble blood, but it’s probably too late for me. I did a lot of bad stuff.” He sank to his knees and let out a tormented howl.

Those whose heartstrings were prone to being tugged by this sort of shameful display tut-tutted among themselves. Others remained stone-faced. Whether it was out of skepticism at this convenient change of heart or just ordinary prejudice, it hardly mattered.

Torold struck a pose. “Perhaps this creature speaks the truth. Perhaps there is a well of goodness deep within its monstrous heart, left untapped by a life of misguided malice.”

“It’s true! Release me, and I’ll fuck off to somewhere very far away and never bother anyone again.”

“No! Kill him!” a man cried out from the crowd. A few more shouts of agreement followed.

At this, Durgrat panicked. He bolted in the same direction Dagna had hauled Razashûk, shaking off his bonds behind him.

“Alas,” said Torold. “He can run a lot faster than I can.”

“Well,” said the mayor, “You did get the one Orc, but it was the small one.”

“I still think that counts,” said one of the other rangers. “People die from small things all the time. Remember that goatherd who got a fever from stepping on an old nail?”

“Indeed. You could die from just a tiny vial of poison,” said another, with maybe a bit too much conviction in his voice.

The rangers and residents broke out into a burble of incoherent arguing. Nobody bothered to try and track the escaped Uruk. The potential killer outside their midst could wait. At the moment it had to be decided who was the most right and what exactly to wring their hands over.

* * *

Durgrat stumbled through the forest, following Dagna’s footprints. He found her and Razashûk crouched with their backs towards a mossy mound of boulders, and they both jolted when they heard him approach. 

Dagna exhaled with relief. “Is Torold all right?”

“Last I saw, yes,” said Durgrat. He smiled at the smaller Orc. “They were glad he murdered you, Raz.”

“Oh, good,” said Razashûk. 

“I’m going to make my way back now,” said Dagna. “Is there any specific way you’d like me to say I buried you?”

“No,” said Razashûk. “We don’t bury our dead where I come from, and I always found the idea a bit strange. All that effort for a body.” He stopped and considered for a moment. “Just tell them you dumped me in the swamp and I sank like a sack of bricks.”

“Will do,” said Dagna. She carefully made her way towards the path, wobbling over piles of rocks with her skirt clutched up around her knees so she wouldn’t trip on it. “The offer of potatoes still stands if you think you can sneak back in safely,” she added. With one final wave, she disappeared into the trees.

* * *

After the sun began to disappear below the thick tree line, Razashûk decided to scout out the situation back in the village. He lurked along a row of shrubs, one hand near his knife just in case. He spotted a cluster of figures off to the side of the town square where they’d been earlier. He recognized one of them as Torold, who was being led into a small, squat stone building, his head bowed and his hands tied. The rest of the figures exited without him. Razashûk’s stomach dropped. He skittered back to the woods, where Durgrat hadn’t budged.

“I think they weren’t entirely satisfied with the Orc-killing services, and now Torold’s locked up.”

“What? Where?”

“The fucking jail, where else?”

“Oh.” Durgrat frowned. “So should we just get out of here now, or what?”

“That git and his weird wife were nice to us when it could’ve gotten them killed. _You_ can leave now if you want, but I can’t just let him rot in a hole. Besides, all our stuff is back there. And I _really_ want those potatoes.”

Durgrat didn’t seem to understand just how monotonous the typical Misty Mountain diet was. As far as Razashûk was concerned, potatoes might as well have been oranges from Harad, dusted with rare spices. 

“So what do we do?” asked the Uruk.

“The ranger captain keeps the keys on him.” He stroked his chin. “Well, shit. If only I knew someone who was good at taking other people’s things without them noticing.”


	10. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow updates. My computer decided to have a complete meltdown and among the parts that needed replacing was the hard drive. I’d backed up everything important! Unfortunately I did not view what I had already written of this as “important”. Ahahaha KILL ME.
> 
> It’s not all bad, though. The original plot soon took a dark turn I’m no longer satisfied with - it feels gratuitous and tonally jarring, and all I could think was “Wow, I must’ve been going through Some Shit when I wrote this, huh?” I’m okay with just wiping that part off the map and doing it over instead of trying to reshape it.
> 
> (This chapter is probably something I’m going to go back and edit a lot. I’ll make a note when that happens.)

The Orcs snuck towards the back of the house under the cover of the murky night sky. Dagna’s silhouette darkened the window frame, and Razashûk gave the glass a few quick taps. She jumped and then caught her breath, her eyes still big and wary. “You scared me! I thought you were guards, come to take me away for collaborating with my husband.”

“No, it’s us,” said Durgrat. 

“Come inside,” she said, opening the window facing the garden. “Just be quiet about it.”

“What happened, anyway?” Razashûk asked as he clambered over the sill. “I thought they were happy Torold got rid of the awful Orkish menace.”

“There’s one other ranger who’s always had it out for him, and harped on the fact he let the big one get away,” she said. “He’s never even fought a thing in his life aside from talking back to his mother, but local politics, you know?” Razashûk suspected there was more to it than this and perhaps their brilliant plan wasn’t as opaque as he’d hoped, but decided not to prod at her in her current state. A completely distraught human, let alone the odd one out in a den crawling with them, would be less than worthless right now.

“We’ll get him out of there, at least,” said Durgrat. “I don’t think we can do much else, like get revenge and drink everyone’s blood, but we can do that much.”

“You stay here,” said Razashûk. “This is our stupid mess.”

Dagna stood up straight and balled her hands into fists, but after a moment she blotted at the corner of her eye with the sleeve of her dress and her voice quivered. “I’m sure you can do it,” she said. “I mean, we got past the hard part, didn’t we?”

Razashûk nodded. He was beginning to regret not just shoving Torold in the bushes, letting him hang himself on his own cloak, and running for it back when they had the chance, but when he thought about abandoning the Man, his stomach squeezed in on him and his limbs felt strange and wobbly. And so Razashûk told himself they had to see it through, if only because he’d be a terrible marksman with his hands shaking like that, and Durgrat’s aim was laughably bad at the best of times, and they’d starve to death, leaving a not-insignificant chance that Morburzhûn might follow the stench of their corpses and pick their bones as revenge and worse yet, find the map and interpret it as a sign he was right to do it. Such a fate was unthinkable, and so Torold had to be freed. 

Durgrat turned to him. “I’m going to deal with the captain. Follow me, after a few minutes. Stay out of sight.”

“What exactly are you going to do?”

“Just trust me,” said Durgrat. He conspicuously set his knife down on the table and headed for the door. 

The others sat near the fire in silence. Razashûk fidgeted and after he lost patience counting how many times he tapped his foot, he decided to play his part. “I’m going now,” he said. “I promise not to get Torold killed.” Dagna nodded, looking like she was making a serious effort to hold her tongue.

Razashûk slinked out of the house and skittered low to the ground, keeping his back to the wall whenever possible. The town was maddeningly quiet, with only a short burst of plaintive barks from a dog somewhere in the distance cutting through the calm. Approaching the guard post, his ears pricked up at the murmur of voices emanating from the window, and he moved in closer to investigate.

He could have choked, watching the scene unfolding in the captain’s tiny office. Durgrat was crouched on the floor, curled into a defensive pose, hands up in a gesture of surrender. He looked up at the captain, wide-eyed. “I can offer nothing but my remorse,” he said, his voice gone soft. “I must repent for all I’ve done. Spare my life, and I am your thrall.”

The captain wrinkled his nose and made a dismissive snort.

“I’ll do all the rotten jobs around town,” he continued. “Mucking stables, culling diseased animals, digging cesspits. Anything is better than having my deeds weigh on my conscience. It’s only fitting I wallow in filth.” 

He drew the captain’s waist into a clumsy embrace, startling him and nearly making him trip over. The Man shoved him back and Durgrat clutched his hands to his chest, looking crushed. “You don’t want me around?” Razashûk had to admit, he made a revoltingly convincing wretch. He almost wanted to curse him and boot him out the door himself.

The captain glared, looking like he was suppressing the urge to be sick. “I’m going to think on what exactly to do with you overnight. But either way, no, I don’t need you sabotaging and stinking up my village.” Razashûk backed away as the captain shoved Durgrat towards the door and watched as the Uruk was led to join Torold.

After waiting several minutes to put distance between him and the guard, he shuffled towards the jail, peeking in the window as he tried to get closer without making too much sound in the shrubbery lining the squat building. His heart felt as if it was going to hammer its way out of his ribcage. Something must have made a sufficient noise, because Durgrat spun around, a glimmer of recognition sparkled in his eyes, and he motioned for the smaller Orc to come closer.

“Raz, don’t be a dead weight. Stop stalling. Get over here.”

Razashûk hissed through his teeth. “ _I’m_ the dead weight? Now you’re _both_ prisoners. What do you expect me to do?”

“I dunno, Mr. Educated. Did one of your father’s ancient scrolls tell you what this does? Enlighten me.” He reached inside his tunic and pulled out a tarnished iron key on a worn leather string.

Razashûk blinked. “How’d you manage that?”

“I didn’t hug that old whiteskin fucker because he’s handsome and smells good. Come get this and let us out.”

Razashûk grabbed the key and hurried inside, jamming it in the locks that held his companions’ cells shut. Everything involved was so old and rusty he was concerned the noise combined with the creak of the wooden door might give them away, but Torold and Durgrat slipped outside and he heard no extra footsteps approaching. He also unlocked the door to the last cell, where some drunk geezer was passed out in the corner. Better to have as many distractions as possible once the guards realized what had happened.

* * *

They regrouped at the tiny farmhouse. By now only a single flickering candle was lit, and the Orcs got the impression it barely illuminated enough for the Mannish couple to see right in front of their faces. When Torold appeared, Dagna barely caught herself before crying out too loudly in relief. She rushed towards him and wrapped herself around him. “You scared me half to death! From now on if we have to scheme, leave it to me.”

Torold slapped his forehead. “Aw, owl noises! We never did get the bounty. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? I uh, suppose we can’t expect to collect on it now.” He sighed at the floor. 

Durgrat made his best attempt at an inconspicuous grunt and tossed a small drawstring bag at Torold, which made him flinch a bit as its weight landed in his hand. Torold’s eyes widened as he peeked inside. He scooped out a fat handful of coins and thrust it in Razashûk’s direction. “As I promised. It’s the least I can do.”

“Nice!” said Razashûk. “You’re all right, seriously, still forking over our share after all that.” Dagna seemed a little taken aback that he hadn’t even put up a demonstrative token of resistance, but then softened and smiled after Durgrat jabbed him in the side and he remembered to say “Thank you.”

The pair hastily packed all they could carry. True to her word as well, Dagna handed over a hefty burlap sack full of potatoes, which Durgrat swung over his shoulder as if it was a feather pillow. “We never liked it that much here anyway,” she said. “What with the swampy air.”

“And all those biting flies that come with it,” added Torold.

“And that ugly fence!” said Dagna. “It looks like a blind man built it.”

Before they could rattle off any more criticisms, Razashûk tried to nudge them along. “You’ll have plenty of time to complain on the road.”

“I _am_ going to miss my furniture,” said Torold as he gave the house one last backward glance. Dagna grabbed his arm and started walking before he could think about rigging up any traps in front of it for old times’ sake.

Torold wasn’t as terrible a tracker as the Orcs had been led to think. Perhaps shrugging off the burden of being expected to find anything interesting helped. They ambled after him along the hidden paths leading away from the village and the main road with little effort. Dagna apparently knew of a small outpost of traders she’d dealt with before settling down with Torold, and made some cryptic remarks about them knowing what to do if you didn’t want to be found. Razashûk raised an eyebrow at that, and she quickly changed the subject by offering to share her own storytelling skills while they still had the chance.

But her heart didn’t quite seem in it. Her voice was flat and hesitant as she struggled to entertain them with a half-remembered yarn about a lonesome, unlucky stonemason. Torold had already heard it at least three times and made it known he thought the ending was a bit weak, Durgrat found the idea of love potions upsetting on principle, and Razashûk was weary of stories about sad people living alone in the middle of nowhere.

“They can’t all be classics,” she said with a huff as they stopped at the top of a hillock to take a momentary breather. 

Torold surveyed their surroundings and turned to the Orcs. “I recognize that rock pile. The path splitting off from there is safe for us, but not for you. They’ve got far more experienced rangers than the likes of me in the lands ahead. This is where we say our goodbyes.”

Durgrat failed to look sufficiently stoic. “We’ll be all right. I always land on my feet,” Dagna reassured him. “We’re both stronger than we look,” she quickly added. She grabbed her husband’s hand and held it tight.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Durgrat.

“It’s probably better we both keep our mouths shut,” said Razashûk. “I hope you find whatever you’re looking for, though.”

And with that, their brief and ill-fated fellowship was broken, and the pair disappeared into the foliage, the sound of their footsteps and occasional mutterings fading into silence. The Orcs stayed a moment, stewing in the quiet. A sliver of sunlight began to emerge over the hills in the hazy distance, finally spurring them to move back into the cover of the deep forest.

“Right, no more wandering near Men’s roads,” said Razashûk. “That aside, I suppose we’ve gained some great wisdom about not judging books by their covers or their silly first impressions where they get their stupid cloak snagged on a tree branch, but there’s got to be an easier way to learn that.”

“I also learned I still hate jail,” said Durgrat. 

As they made their way, the greenery began to give way to sparser growth and drier air. The forest was no less dense, but now the foliage began to look more twisted and barren, and even the evergreens bore dull, brownish needles, as if it were all slowly starving. It sounded different, too; bird songs and rustling leaves gave way to whistling winds and the occasional slither and hiss underfoot. Razashûk felt this was a good sign, as it hinted that Sauron’s grasp had reached even this forlorn corner of the world and grazed it with his fingertips. Their prize loomed closer.

They reached a ragged glade where the shadow of an ancient and long-fallen tree stretched across the ground, and its source made for a convenient shelter. Its massive tangle of uprooted tendrils, sun-bleached and bone-dry, was stuck in place, jutting out at an angle like a roof. Dead trees could not be offended by their presence, and so they spread down their meager bedding into a pile and set about kindling a small fire.

The available fare wasn’t terrifically exciting, but it was warm and it was theirs, and better yet, they didn’t have to chase it down. The potatoes hit Razashûk’s stomach like a sack of rocks and for the first time in what seemed like ages, he felt full, to the point he didn’t think he could eat any more. Durgrat complained about them being sort of bland, so they scanned the area for any sign of something else edible. All that they could find were mysterious white berries neither of them recognized, and even Durgrat knew better than to take that chance. 

Razashûk plunked himself back down near the dying embers, still a bit sluggish. “We should rest here a while. I know you’re going to get bored, but I’m not sure I have any stories you haven’t heard.” He paused in thought, his lip curling into a smirk. “Oh, wait. I just remembered a good one. Once upon a time, there was a foolish young Uruk who thought jail sounded like the most fun place in the world...”

Durgrat feigned swatting at him, missing his face by inches.

“Careful!” said Razashûk. “I’ll call for the rangers, seeing as there’s a creature attacking me. And then guess where you’ll end u...”

Durgrat tackled him, knocking him over sideways and pinning him to the ground. “You’ll have to escape from me first.”

“Pfft, what are you going to do, eat me up? I know you pissed and moaned about the food, but I’m all gristle and bones. I’m not worth the effort.”

“Don’t you remember what happened last time? I have no problem devouring you.” Razashûk did remember, and his skin flushed with warmth at the thought. He grabbed for Durgrat’s hand and moved it up under his shirt.

Durgrat laughed. “What’s wrong with you? You seem almost...happy.”

Razashûk scowled at him. “I’ve learned a lot of valuable life lessons recently, all right?” He looked as if those words pained him to even form inside his head. “Don’t make me think about things like that right now. I’m trying to feel _less_ disgusted. If you don’t want to have fun with me you can go sulk on that pile of rotten moss.”

“See, that sounds more like you,” said the Uruk. But he continued smiling, and slithered his other hand up Razashûk’s leg, giving a playful squeeze as it slid up the back of his breechcloth. 

After a few moments of clumsy groping, Razashûk scrambled out from under Durgrat. When Durgrat got up on his knees, Razashûk shoved him backwards and down onto the nest he’d arranged, seated with his back to the wall of dead roots.

“Look, just sit there and you can eat...shut up. Let me do this,” Razashûk said. Those tender words of seduction swayed Durgrat’s heart, and he relaxed as Razashûk fiddled with his clothes, yanking aside anything that was in the way of the important bits.

Razashûk knelt in front of him and settled there, one hand gripping Durgrat’s inner thigh and tracing circles with his thumb while the other explored the juncture of his legs, at first barely brushing against the Uruk’s foreskin. Durgrat didn’t have much patience for that, and grabbed Razashûk’s hand and guided it, wrapping his fingers around his cock, then letting go as he took the hint and stroked it, steadily growing more confident as it stiffened more with his touch. 

Razashûk traced the vein on the shaft with his tongue, snaking a slow, wavering line up and down. His pace increased, egged on by the sounds the Uruk was making and the thrill of knowing someone so much bigger and stronger than him was not only humbled and at his mercy, but had put himself there willingly. He looked up with a grin and snapped at the air with his teeth before getting back to work, and Durgrat let out a small gasp while his cock gave a satisfying twitch in Razashûk’s hand.

He knew the Uruk wouldn’t last much longer. The muscles of his abdomen tensed and rippled. Razashûk could feel the head swelling under his tongue, and shoved as much of it in his mouth as he could manage, sucking and swirling his tongue around the underside. Durgrat gripped the back of his neck, and his fingers clenched down while his breath grew heavy. Razashûk let the pleasant warm dizziness taking over spread from his head down his limbs, and felt a wave of hot triumph surge through him when Durgrat growled and erupted in his throat.

Razashûk sighed as the Uruk drew back out of his mouth. He sputtered slightly, then turned his head and spat on the ground. Durgrat either didn’t notice or didn’t care, as he was idly digging through one of his bags of ill-gotten miscellany. Still heated after catching his breath, Razashûk blinked as he saw him smearing something onto his fingers.

“Where did you get that jar of grease?” He had a pretty good idea _why_ Durgrat had got it, at least, and his pulse hastened from both curiosity and apprehension as the wheels turned in his head.

The smaller Orc inhaled sharply at the sensation of Durgrat’s hand prodding at him, blunt, slippery fingertips sliding between his buttocks and circling the opening there, increasing the pressure as he explored. It was slow, to the point that Razashûk almost wanted to bark at him to hurry up, but his nerves won out in the end and he trusted the Uruk’s cautious pace.

One finger pressed in, and Razashûk froze for a second until he realized it merely felt new and unfamiliar at worst. After several tentative thrusts, it was joined by another, and Durgrat settled into a pattern, guided by the small encouraging noises coming from Razashûk. “Ah!” He squinted his eyes shut and dug his grip tighter into Durgrat’s thigh, hard enough to turn his knuckles white and make his wrist shake. “Keep going...” he rasped when the Uruk paused, squirming to try and bear down and once more make him hit whatever it was that had sent lightning up his spine a moment ago. 

Durgrat obeyed. He twisted his fingers around while he worked them back and forth, keeping the rhythm once he found the right spot again. Razashûk let go of the Uruk’s leg and wrapped both his arms around him, pulling himself forward and pressing their bodies together. He rocked his hips while Durgrat did his best to keep up with the motion of the other Orc grinding into him.

Durgrat felt an echo of heat return to his blood as Razashûk moaned into his skin while his face flushed a darker shade of grey. There was one last sharp throb and a gush of wetness against his stomach as Razashûk spilled onto him with a low, throaty snarl. It was enough to make him want to attempt another go already, but the Orc was obviously spent. He quivered and then slumped like a rag doll, his scrawny arms dropping down to his sides while he leaned his head down and panted.

After a moment, they pried themselves apart, rolling onto their backs, still silent aside from the occasional non-verbal acknowledgment of tired contentment. Razashûk wrinkled his nose. Out of all the ridiculous embellished details he’d heard, tales that stirred up envy and frustrated him even if they were intentionally disgusting because _at least those horrible unlucky twits were getting laid_ , nobody ever warned him of the little pitfalls. Plenty of “she almost choked to death on it” or “and that’s why you make sure you’re not holding in a massive shit”, but no “your leg will cramp up” or “don’t be surprised by the smell afterwards, that’s just the way it goes.”

Ultimately none of that mattered much to him, and he felt a faint twinge of realization that he’d be very suspicious of any experience that didn’t have some sort of drawback. “That was nice,” he said.

“Who put a spell on you?” said Durgrat.

Razashûk’s mind was still too hazy to come up with any snotty comebacks. He shifted closer and nestled into the crook of Durgrat’s shoulder, and a faint smile spread across his face when he felt the Uruk’s pulse thrum against his ear. 

_We could stay together like this even after we get the treasure,_ he thought. Then _That’s stupid. Maybe I do have a spell on me._

A vague sound of thunder rumbled in the distance and the air cooled. This was a good omen; with any luck a blanket of clouds would spread over the entire sky and smother the sun. He decided the reason for his mood was that their surroundings were growing less nauseating. They dying forest was strange and foreign, but the muted gloom of it all reminded him of home, and darker pastures lay ahead.


	11. Fantastic Beasts and How to Avoid Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long-overdue update. I finally finished my degree so I'll have a little more time to write for fun now, hopefully.

The overcast sky was blustery and humid, wind zipping through the treetops and making a range of distracting noises. Durgrat did his best to ignore them as he followed Razashûk’s lead, stepping around suspicious spots and dents in the dusty ground beneath their feet.

They approached a small gap in the trees where the dead grass looked well-trod. “Wait,” Razashûk said through gritted fangs. Durgrat opened his mouth but just jolted back when he saw the reason why, lumbering near a low patch of brambles at the edge of the clearing.

Its fur was a pale, warm grey with a few sandy splotches standing out across its back. The creature wasn’t shaped quite like any of the Wargs that Razashûk had seen. Its body was a bit bulkier and lower to the ground than he recognized, and he figured it must be some obscure breed that didn’t care for the cold of the mountains. 

He hissed and clicked his teeth a few times in quick succession. The Warg narrowed its eyes, then snuffled and let out a short yelp.

Durgrat grabbed Razashûk’s upper arm, squeezing uncomfortably hard. “What is _wrong_ with you? Why are you letting it know where we are?” he whispered.

“I’m not afraid of Wargs,” said Razashûk with a hint of a disdainful scowl. “I know how to talk to them.”

“That would have been nice to know before it came over,” Durgrat snapped. “Couldn’t you have howled at it to piss off and leave us alone?”

“It’s not that simple. You’ve got to get a read on it, you know? They’re quite sharp-witted. It isn’t like whistling at songbirds just to mess with them. I’ve met Wargs that are smarter than some people.” 

The creature inhaled deeply and took several cautious steps closer to the Orcs. It barked, letting out a few short bursts of noise followed by one long snarl, teeth bared.

Razashûk turned towards Durgrat. “That was as close as possible to a friendly warning. She’s a bit peeved we’ve wandered into her turf,” he said. “But she’s not hurting for food, and killing us would cause too much of a ruckus. I doubt she’s the only dangerous creature around, and I don’t think she wants extra attention any more than we do.” He turned back toward the Warg and growled a couple times, rumbling oddly in his throat. “I told her we won’t take anything we don’t need.” He lowered his voice. “We’re lucky she doesn’t have any pups right now, or this would be a very different story.” The Warg made a low grumble, and the message was clear even to Durgrat: _I can hear you, you know._

Razashûk was confident she posed no real danger, and simply wanted to make her presence known to them. Still, he knew they needed to be careful. Wargs were social creatures, and depended on each other. Where one appeared, there were undoubtedly more lurking in the shadows.

The Warg turned and ambled away, apparently having better things to do than make sure they didn’t do anything stupid. Durgrat stared as the creature vanished back into the scenery. “I never thought of them as something that could be negotiated with. You’d see them once in a while in Isengard, ‘cause Sharkey hired mercenaries who rode them. I always kept my distance. They seemed like their reason to live was to tear your legs out from under you.”

“These are wild Wargs we’re dealing with,” said Razashûk. “They’re not some creepy old fucker’s attack dogs. They’ve got better things to do than roll over in servitude. Nobody’s going to say ‘good boy’ and throw extra scraps at them for killing us.”

“You know a lot about Wargs,” said Durgrat.

“They’re just part of life in the Misty Mountains. My family had one around when I was little. He took a liking to me, and spending so much time around him, I learned his speech, as it were.” A faint smile spread across Razashûk’s face. Listening to Groth and realizing he had picked up the patterns in the tone and cadence of the Warg’s noises was one of the bright points of his childhood. Not only had the powerful creature chosen him, he was in on something hardly anyone else around was. Wargs could be bribed or trained into following commands easily enough, but truly understanding one was something else entirely.

“You lot kept it on purpose? And talked to it and everything?” Durgrat titled his head in bemusement.

He nodded. “Groth, we called him. This big dark grey thing covered in scars. You could tell he was a fighter, but I think his fighting days were long behind him by the time he found us. He just wandered in one particularly cold rainy evening and nobody told him to leave. My father would frown and say, ‘You’re not feeding that shitty old mongrel, are you?’ and we’d tell him no while wiping the blood and grease from the morsels off our hands. We liked to think he was our personal guard, but fortunately he never had to prove himself.”

“What happened to him?”

“Like I said, he was old. One day he just went to sleep and never woke up. My mother made his hide into clothes and things for us. My youngest sister’s son has her old coat now, since she was tiny back then.” Razashûk’s face fell slightly and he looked aside. “I don’t have my stuff anymore. I dropped one of my mittens into a ravine, and I traded the belt for a shiny copper bracelet that I gave to a lad who it turns out didn’t like jewelry and _really_ didn’t like me.”

Durgrat snorted, failing to completely squelch his amusement. Razashûk rolled his eyes. “Anyway,” the Orc continued, “She won’t bother us if we don’t bother her. Best to just keep our distance and move along.”

* * *

They hadn’t gone far when Razashûk suggested they stop and rest. The clouds gathered in spotted rows as the sky darkened, and something nearby had him on edge and fidgeting. 

“What’s so special about this spot?” asked Durgrat.

“I heard something interesting earlier, after the wind died down. Wait here, and be quiet.” 

Durgrat crouched by the thicket and watched Razashûk make his way toward a particularly tall and battered tree, the mottled, splintered bark of its trunk only occasionally interrupted by an equally straight and worn branch. At the very top was a dark mass of twigs and brambles, almost comically conspicuous against the bare limbs it was nestled against. Razashûk climbed towards it and took a glance at the middle, then darted out one arm into the tangle and drew back just as quickly, barely rustling the foliage. He scampered down the tree trunk looking very pleased with himself, and when he met the ground he returned to Durgrat and unfurled the long scrap of hide nestled against him, securing his prize in place. 

It was a massive egg, big enough that he needed both hands to hold it securely, pale yellow with dull green spots all over it. Durgrat took a moment to admire it, running his fingers along the smooth surface of its shell, before it was snatched away from him again. Razashûk had unearthed a dingy iron pot from the bottom of his pack, and was about to crack the egg on the edge of it when Durgrat lunged at him and landed with a dull thud as Razashûk quickly rolled to the side.

“Don’t break it!”

“Why?” Razashûk let out an exasperated gasp and he jerked his arms, still clutching the intact egg, into the air away from the Uruk.

“It could hatch into an amazing monster!” Blurry memories of illustrations he’d seen while surreptitiously flipping through the dusty stacks of Saruman’s library swirled through his head. Quite a few of them had been depicted sitting on colossal glittering hoards of gold and gems.

“Or it could just rot in your bag, break when you stumble, and stink up everything it touches,” said Razashûk. “Even on the off chance it _is_ a monster that somehow lives in a nest that looks exactly like an eagle’s, complete with stray eagle feathers stuck in it, it’s a bit small to be anything _amazing_.”

Durgrat furrowed his brow. True, he couldn’t recall any creature in those arcane etchings that was both deeply impressive and small enough for him to carry. And such a thing would be just another mouth to feed, his empty stomach reminded him with a sharp squeeze. Once again, Razashûk’s fancy mountain-Orc education had shut him up.

“Look, aren’t you at least glad for something to shove down your craw besides withered potatoes?”

Durgrat gave a petulant shrug. He righted himself as casually as possible and pretended to look away at something fascinating in the sky while Razashûk smacked the egg against the edge of the pot. An odd mix of relief and disappointment washed over him as he saw out of the corner of his eye that there was nothing inside except a gigantic, deep yellow yolk surrounded by perfectly ordinary slime.

The egg cooked quickly despite its size, and the Orcs bolted down the lumpy yellow mess Razashûk had expertly crafted. Durgrat licked his hand. Any lingering visions of a tamed baby serpent sniffing out treasure and leading them to victory dissolved into the void as the heavy warmth of the egg hit his stomach.

“You’re right. That was...” The Uruk was rudely interrupted by a huge black shape swooping towards them. Both Orcs snapped their necks up in unison.

“Ah, shit!” said Razashûk. “I thought it would be gone longer.”

Durgrat didn’t have to ask what it was. The eagle’s form was highlighted by the dying embers, its pale yellow eyes glittering with fury as it dove towards them.

Durgrat picked up a hefty dead branch from the ground nearby and began swinging, narrowly missing the eagle a few times, but mostly widely missing it. He snarled. “Fuck off, would you?! There’s probably millions of you out there plopping your eggs all over the place, and only a few of us left.” The beast answered with a long, piercing shriek and grazed Durgrat’s forearm with its talons before flapping away from the Uruk’s flailing reach.

Razashûk was faring slightly better, having grabbed his bow and found a hidden spot slightly above ground in the foliage. He narrowed his eyes and took aim. The arrow zipped through the air in a slight arc and plunged into the crook of the eagle’s wing. It screeched again, this time ragged and warbling, as it shook its injured appendage while doing its best to stay aloft. The arrow worked loose and fell to the ground, and Razashûk cursed under his breath.

“Fine, be that way! Don’t say we didn’t try reasoning with you!” Durgrat yelled. One of his frantic swats finally connected and threw the eagle off balance, giving him just enough time to roll away ineffectively and flinch in terror as it came back down at him, claws-first, snapping its razor beak.

Just as Razashûk felt a panicked wail squeeze itself out of his lungs, another sound overpowered it. He jerked his head in its direction, eyes wide. The she-Warg they’d run into earlier emerged from the shadows, accompanied by half a dozen more, jaws gnashing and voices growling.

Durgrat dropped the branch and shuffled away from the pack as they circled the eagle. One especially large Warg briefly got ahold of its wing and left a nasty gouge. Another snapped its leg in its jaws, and only let go when the eagle threatened to try and take the Warg up in the air with it. 

There was no safe place for it to land, and the raptor had no choice but to return to its nest in the canopy, wounded and exhausted, wobbling lopsided in the air as it shook its damaged wing. The Wargs followed, leaping and clawing at the bottom of the tree while howling and barking in a cacophonous rhythm. 

“Thank you!” Razashûk yelped as he left his hiding place, then realizing his faux pas, he repeated himself in their tongue, snarling through his teeth while lowering himself in deference. He reached into his pack and set down a handful of bones with some remnants of meat and marrow stuck to them, and a couple of potatoes for good measure, on the ground in front of him, then backed away and rejoined his companion. The Wargs fell quiet and bowed their blocky heads towards him in recognition.

“Pfft. You said they were too good for helping and nobody was going to reward them with scraps,” said Durgrat. 

Razashûk just returned the Uruk’s smirk. “They must be very special, then.” Durgrat nodded, no stranger to the power of flattery. 

Razashûk knelt to retrieve his arrow and then motioned for Durgrat to follow him. “Let’s not outstay our welcome.” With a last look at the Warg pack, he whistled and let out a series of barks, then turned back towards the dark expanse stretching before them.

“That was intense,” said Razashûk, doing his best to keep his breath deep and steady and calm his still-rattling pulse.

“Right?! I almost pissed myself. But I didn’t.”

Razashûk laughed. “I’m glad you survived, unsoiled. For now.” He could feel his sneering armor already cracking under Durgrat’s gaze, and didn’t resist when the Uruk slung an arm around him and rested it on his shoulder as they walked. The weight and warmth was reassuring, a tangible reminder they were both still in one piece. _For now._


End file.
